How To Fix A Winchester
by RavensGame
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like. Hurt and comfort stand alones. Cannon compliant. No smut, no slash, no bashing. Just brotherly love, concern and comfort. Prompts accepted.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, so this project is exactly what it sounds like, just good old fashioned hurt and comfort and brotherly fluff. Most will end up being episode tags, though some original story lines will work their way through at some point. Each chapter will be a cannon compliant stand alone. Also compliant with my Confessions 'Verse stories, though not necessarily set in that universe. I will also accept prompts for this project, just pm them to me, though I'll be honest, this project will get updated when I have the muse and need a break from my AU's which I update nearly every other day. One's angsty and the other's flat out dark, so I needed some fluff.**

**Enjoy, and please review, it really means the world to me.**

**Enjoy your weekend dose of big brother Dean.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**How To Fix A Winchester **

**Chapter 1**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Rabbit Food"- a tag to S1E4**

They had only dropped off Charlie a few hours back when Dean pulled off the highway. He cruised the streets of the small town until he spotted what he wanted.

Maneuvering the Impala into the diner's tiny parking lot, he parked, glancing over at his brother.

Best he could tell, Sam was asleep with his eys open, had been that way for the last hour, at least.

"Sam." Dean said the word with the low, gentle authority he'd learn to use decades ago, whenever he had needed to rouse a still sleeping Sammy because of an impromptu midnight car ride (all too common in their relatively short lives).

Sam blinked, startling a little and Dean suppressed a snort. Sam glanced around, mild confusion gracing his features.

"Where..." He squinted at the diner and shook his head again, "Um, what time is it?"

"Lunchtime, kiddo." Dean answered, slapping Sam's shoulder lightly. He managed not to frown at the realization that Sam had lost more weight than Dean had thought. Sam tended to dress in layers, which had hid until now the fact that his collar bone could easily be felt, his shoulder bony and thin.

It wasn't really unexpected, Dean thought to himself sourly, as he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sam eat more than half of his meal. And half a salad didn't go very far when you burned calories the way the Winchesters tended to.

"I'm not hungry." Sam replied immediately, and from his position outside the car, Dean rolled his eyes skyward.

Well wasn't that a shocker. Sam wasn't hungry. Hadn't been hungry for most of the past two months, as far as Dean could tell. Rolling his eyes again at the fact that he was about to stoop to the sneak tactics he'd had to employ during Sam's childhood, he leaned down to look into the car, jade eyes meeting hazel.

"I'm just gonna stay out here." Sam started tiredly, rubbing his eyes in a way that made Dean remember a three year old Sammy who desperately needed a nap.

Dean intended for Sam to get just that, but first things first. He needed to get some decent food in Sam.

"Suck it up, Sammy." He said good-naturedly. "I don't wanna have to stop later because you suddenly realized you're hungry. Don't be a diva." He held his breath, waiting.

"Jerk." He heard Sam mutter from inside the vehicle, and Dean grinned triumphantly when Sam got out, slamming the door with a scowl.

"Bitch." Dean replied, forcing down his grin as they walked into the diner.

Studying the menu, Dean searched for something that fit the bill. Eyes landing on the soups of the day, he nodded to himself. Plan of attack firmly in place, he laid down his menu.

The waitress, a pretty, forty-ish woman with auburn hair smiled at them, eyes softening when they landed on Sammy, and Dean had to shake his head at Sam's completely unconscious ability to render any maternal figure in a fifty mile radius completely at his mercy.

"Darlings, what can I get for you? You look about half-starved, hon." She said sympathetically to Sam, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

Sam flushed, uncomfortable with attention, the way he always was unless he was acting undercover.

"Hmm, coffee, black's fine, and um-mm, the grilled chicken salad." He shifted uncomfortably.

"That it, honey? We have some great garlic bread, with cheese on it, how aout I bring you a couple of slices of that too. A tall glass of water like you needs more than just rabbit food." She urged helpfully, and Dean cheered mentally, thanking god for empty nesters.

"Sure. Sure, that would be fine." Sam blushed and smiled at her, and Dean smiled triumphantly. He would have happily paid for it, but he'd bet dollars to donuts the garlic bread wouldn't appear on their tab.

She turned to Dean, and Dean was pleased to see appreciation in her eyes when she looked at him.

Dean knew the truth. He was a damn fine specimen of a man, after all.

"Bacon cheeseburger, double, extra bacon. Fries, chocolate shake. Oh, an an order of onion rings." Her eyes widened slightly, but she nodded, glancing lightning fast at Sam before looking back to Dean, and Dean thought she might be on to him, but she didn't say a word, just wrote down his order with a small smile.

Dean snapped his finger, as if the thought had just struck him. "Oh, hey, what kinda soup you got on today?" He asked, and the waitress's grin widened.

She had definitely made him.

"Pot roast, potato bacon, minestrone and chicken noodle." She recited with a tongue in cheek smile, and Dean took a moment to enjoy their camaraderie.

Sam was staring at Dean, agog.

"Seriously, Dean? That's a ton of food, even for you. And since when do you even like soup?" He asked, wrinkling his nose.

Dean watched as the waitress practically melted at the cuteness overload that was Sam Winchester, and began to wonder idly if he was gonna have to wrestle her later to see which one of them took Sam home.

It wouldn't be the first time someone's overactive mommy-instincts had them trying to adopt Sam, it had been happening most of Sam's life, much to his embarrassment. Waitresses, teachers, ER nurses, hell, even witnesses.

Grandmothers tried to give him cookies. Lady cops reminded him to wear his seat belt. Minivan mom's in the middle of passing out sandwiches to their children would try to give Sam one too.

He'd even seen fatherly older men ask Sam where his jacket was. It was just one of the facts of life. People looked at Sammy Winchester and wanted to take care of him.

But Sam was Dean's little brother, Dean's responsibility, and Dean had spent more than two years racking his brain for a way to get him back. Though he would give anything for it to turn out differently than it had, he sure as hell wasn't letting go of the kid now.

Dean knew how to take care of his kid better than anyone.

'Let's go with the minestrone." He said, handing the menu to the waitress with a smile, and she nodded approvingly. Inwardly, he grimaced, he personally hated soup, particularly minestrone. Give him a good bowl of chili any day.

"Dude, you hate minestrone." Sam said confusedly.

Dean knew that Sam liked it, though.

"Used to." Dean agreed off-handedly. "Had some killer soup down in New Orleans, though and been craving it ever since."

"You realize you're thinking of gumbo, right?" Sam asked, bitch facing him.

"Huh." Dean replied, as if the thought had never crossed his mind.

Game, set, match.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Sup Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Their waitress (Corrine) brought their food a short time later, tray balanced so full Dean was impressed by her defiance of physics. He reminded himself to leave her a hell of a tip.

He noticed how she casually set down the food, Sam's salad and (four!) pieces of garlic bread in front of him. She also set down a glass of milk and Dean had to repress a chuckle at her audacity.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I ordered coffee." Sam looked up at her, eyes large and apologetic.

"Don't worry about it, hon, I poured it by mistake and I couldn't exactly pour it back now, could I?" She winked discreetly at Dean and Dean nearly choked, pushing his lips together firmly to choke down his laughter, glad Sam was so tired, or he knew his little brother would have caught on to them ages ago.

She set down the rest of the food, making a point to place to onion rings between the two boys, and setting Dean's soup off a little to the side.

They thanked her and she bustled off, tossing Dean another wink as she went.

Sam was staring wide eyed at all the food.

"Dude." Was all he managed, and Dean had to silently agree with him. There was more food on the table right now than they'd seen in whole weeks during their childhood. Remembering hungrier times only made him more determined, though. He'd have to hit up another poker game sooner rather than later, but it would be worth it, if he could just get Sam to eat. Sam hadn't gone hungry on Dean's watch since he'd been sixteen, newly back from Sonny's with a new appreciation for just how much teenage boys were supposed to have to eat. Sonny had never let him or the other boys go hungry, and it rubbed in Dean's face the reason why Sammy was so much smaller than all the other kids his age.

Growing kids weren't supposed to live off peanut butter, no more than 6'4" college kids were supposed to live off lettuce.

The kid couldn't keep going on like this, losing weight, losing sleep. It dulled his reflexes, made him vulnerable to the baddies. It also set him up for a mean fight with the first nasty cold or flu virus he came across, and the kid wasn't getting sick or hurt on Dean's watch.

They started eating, Dean with gusto, Sam picking the bits of chicken out of his salad desultorily. Dean was pleased to see him eat first one, then two pieces of the garlic bread, and he had already absent mindedly drained the glass of milk, and was now working on his coffee.

Dean tossed him a couple of creamers, knowing Sam hated black coffee, and Sam smiled at him, surprised, but appreciative.

'Thanks." He said genuinely, and Dean's heart swelled. God, he had missed his kid while he'd been away.

Moving on too phase two of his plan, he pulled the bowl of soup over in front of him. Blowing on a steaming spoonful, girding himself to take a bite.

He didn't have to fake his look of disgust, and Sam laughed, shaking his head.

"Told you so." He said smugly, and Dean flipped him the bird, though he was more glad than anything to see him laughing.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Hey, you like this crap, right?" He pushed the bowl towards Sam, displacing the half eaten salad. "You eat it. We gotta pay for it, might as well not waste it."

He could see Sam wavering for a moment, but Dean's logic was sound enough, their childhoods making wasting food a cardinal sin.

He shrugged finally, picking up a spoon and taking a tentative sip. His eyes widened a little.

"This is actually good." Sam said in suprise, not even noticing as he picked up another piece of garlic bread and took a bite.

Dean did a mental victory dance, then grabbed an onion ring, moaning in sheer physical pleasure.

"Holy crap, dude, these are awesome. They taste just like the ones Bobby makes."

"Seriously?" Sam asked, pleased excitement in his voice as he reached out for one, dunking it in some ketchup.

They didn't, of course, Dean had never come across a diner that could match Bobby's homemade onion rings, but these were pretty good, and Dean knew Sam loved them, though he never ordered them for himself.

"Nah..." Sam shook his head decisively. "You haven't been back to Bobby's in too long, Dean. These aren't even close. They are good though." He added as an afterthought, popping another one in his mouth.

Sooner, rather than later, they had cleared an alarming amount of food from the table. Only half a piece of garlic bread remained, the soup was finished, the onion rings demolished. Sam had even ate a little more of his rabbit food.

Dean had practically inhaled his own burger and fries, and he realized he'd probably been missing some meals too, with all his worries about Sam and Dad.

He signaled for the check, and Corrine brought it, along with two pieces of apple pie, complete with ice cream. "I bet the cook you guys could finish more of your food then you'd leave behind, and I won. Pie's on the house."

She smiled at them both indulgently, and Dean corrected his earlier plan.

He was leaving her a massive freaking tip.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay, so I know that I promised that every chapter in this project would be a stand-alone, and this chapter directly ties into the first one. Sorry. Just got to discussing the first chapter with my bestie, and the evil plot bunny took it from there. Future chapters will be stand-alones, this one just ended up being a two-parter.**

**Review and tell me you forgive me?**

**It also ended up on the angsty end of the fluff spectrum, but no one dies or anything, so that counts, right? I'm an angsty Sam Girl, so while my drama tends to have sarcastic humor threaded through it, my fluff tends to have an angsty edge to it. Bitter and sweet, I guess. I always say that the story goes where it grows. **

**Let's see. In other news, if you follow my AU's, All The Pretty Monsters updated just a few hours ago, and there is now a poll up on my profile in regards to the story. Prisoner of War updated on Thursday and will hopefully update tomorrow, and my other canon compliant project, Confessions of a Boy King should update sometime tomorrow also.**

**I will accept canon compliant prompts for this project, as well as my Confessions 'Verse stories.**

**Please feel free to check them out also, and remember to review. If you ever have questions, thoughts or just want to discuss my work, please hit me up, because I get a huge kick out of talking to you guys.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Two**

"**The Unfornate Thing about ****Fool's Errands"**

Sam Winchester was many things. He was tired, angry, depressed, homeless, and disillusioned. He was a mother-less hunter, a college drop-out, and a grieving boyfriend.

But he was not a fool.

He had known exactly what Dean was up to at the diner. Had, in fact, known since Dean ordered the soup.

Dean might have gotten away with the onion rings. Dean might not love them the way Sam did (geez, they were bad for you, though), but Dean had an unhealthy obsession with fried food, so they weren't really outside of the realm of possibility.

That stupid soup, though.

Dean hated soup. He particularly hated minestrone. In fact, Sam had once heard Dean launch into a half an hour rant as to the utter, disgusting uselessness that was minestrone.

So Sam knew there was no way his brother had 'accidentally' confused gumbo with minestrone. Dean knew food, loved food, knew exactly what he wanted, what he liked and how he wanted it cooked.

Food was as close to religion as Dean Winchester got, and a double bacon cheeseburger was Dean's version of a prayer.

So the soup was a dead giveaway. Dean was more likely to voluntarily join a monastery than order minestrone for himself.

Once Sam got over the urge to say "Christo" to his brother and watch for changing eyes, he chose to play along.

It had nothing to with Sam being tired, or the pounding in his head from where the ghost had attempted to liquify his brain via an antique mirror.

It was because, of all the things Sam might be (besides _not being _a fool), Sam was first and foremost was Dean Winchester's little brother.

And Sam got it.

Dean had raised him, after all, diapers, bath times, scraped knees, the whole nine yards. Dean could tell you Sam's first words, the story of his first steps, probably knew the first girl Sam had slept with.

And it was the same for Sam.

He'd learned pretty much everything to do with the real world from watching his older brother. When he took aim at a monster, his stance mirrored Dean's. When he had to act undercover, he wasn't pretending to be a cop or a lawyer or a doctor. He was pretending to be Dean pretending to be those things.

He knew Dean better than Dean knew Dean. He could order his food for him, pick a radio station for him, pick an outfit for him. He could sit at the bar and point out which girl Dean would hit on. He could watch him play pool, and call the shots his brother would try to (and probably succeed) make before the words even passed Dean's lips.

He knew all Dean's quirks, all his little foibles. He understood how Dean's mind worked, how his life worked.

Dean was a fixer. Kill the baddie. Save the girl. Patch up Dad. Take care of Sam.

_Fix-Save-Protect-Repeat._

Dean was a complex person with very simple needs. He needed his family to to present, safe and accounted for.

He needed to stop the bad guy, and rescue the victim. Keep everyone safe, all the time.

As long as Dean could do this, all was right in his world. Gravity functioned. Time lapsed at the correct speed. The moon orbited the earth, and the earth orbited the sun, and everything was awesome.

He didn't need a roof or a career or a degree. He just needed to _protect_.

The problem was, everything had pretty much gone to hell lately. Dad was gone, and Dean was beside himself with worry and fear. He'd reached out to Sam, not just for help but because he couldn't handle both members of his small family being out of sight, out of reach.

And then Sam had nearly perished in the fire that had killed Jess, and Sam knew for a fact that he wasn't the only one who had dreams about that. Except in Dean's dreams, Sam figured it must be Sam himself who died, because more than once he'd woken up to Dean sitting on the floor, asleep, leaning against Sam's bed like he'd simply needed to be close to him, to feel his presence.

And now Dean knew Sam had a secret, a secret bad enough to lead to someone's death. He'd honestly thought, back when he suggested using himself as bait for bloody Mary, that Dean was going to handcuff Sam to the door of the Impala and just keep driving.

He'd never known his brother to walk off a case, but he'd really thought that this time he might just do it.

"Protect Sammy" had been drilled into Dean's head for more than two decades now, and Sam knew his nightmares and depression over Jess were possibly almost as hard on Dean as they were on Sam, because at least Sam knew what was going on in his head.

Sam knew what his nightmares were about, knew the nature of the guilt that was eating him up inside, stealing his appetite, destroying the peace he sought in sleep. He knew the secret that was driving him forward, searching for Dad and the demon, like a shark that would drown if it stopped swimming.

Dean had reached the point where he was practically hovering over Sam, like a dog sensing it's owner was in danger but helpless to prevent it. Dean knew enough to know that Sam was in trouble, but it wasn't a danger that Dean could hunt or shoot or kill, and it was slowly eating Dean alive that he couldn't seem to protect his family.

Dean was beating himself up over everything that was going on, trying to figure out how to help Sam, how to fix Sam, when in reality, Sam was starting to doubt anything would ever be able to be fixed.

The look on Dean's face, back in the antique shop, haunted Sam. Dean had gripped his face in his hands, staring at the bloody tears streaming from his eyes, and his expression had simply _shattered_ in front of Sam. Once again, Dean thought he had failed to protect Sam, when in reality, what he had done once again was save him.

Sam wished there was someway for him to let Dean understand that Sam _knew_.

Knew that Dean would always come for him, would always fight for him. While Sam had lost faith at times in John, he had never lost faith in Dean. If there ever came a day when Dean didn't save Sam, it meant that no one in the universe could have saved him, because if there was a way, Sam's stubborn, over protective, pain in the ass big brother would find it.

Dean didn't understand faith like Sam did though. Dean believed in the tangible, and gripping Sam's bloody face in his hands after the ghost's attack seemed like tangible proof of failure.

Maybe it would be easier on Dean if John would just answer the damn phone already.

Sam was furious with John, perhaps more now than two years ago, and not just because of Jess. Sam was desperate for answers, for justice for the sweet, beautiful girl he'd gotten killed. But if he was honest with himself, he needed John even more, for Dean's sake.

Jess was dead, and Sam would never stop trying to kill the thing that had ended her life. Dean was still alive, though, and he needed his father, needed John Winchester in a way that Sam never had. John had raised Dean (if you could call it that) but in all honesty, Dean had been the one who raised Sam.

And just like Dean needed John to be okay, Sam needed Dean to feel better.

Sam was sick over how bad he knew Dean was feeling. Dean was frightened, scared of loosing his family, scared of failing, scared of being left alone. The Winchester code of un-emotions meant Dean could never, ever talk about it, though.

Sam knew that every day that went by without John Winchester's re-appearance in Dean's life was another day Dean felt like a failure, and Sam would give just about anything to make Dean understand that it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't his job to save everyone all the time.

But that wasn't the way Dean worked, and Sam understood that.

So he sat in the diner, pretending to be clueless as to his brother's sneak tactics (and didn't the waitress think she was a clever one?), not having to pretend to be exhausted (what he wouldn't give for just one night without the nightmares) and he forced himself to eat as much as he could.

Because Dean needed him to. Dean needed Sam to be better, to be okay, to at least look like he was healing. Dean needed to feel like he was helping, that he was fixing his kid brother.

And since Dean was the only real thing Sam had left also, Sam needed Dean to be okay, just as much as Dean needed him to be.

So he ate the soup and drank the milk and pretended not to realize he was eating Dean's onion rings. He silently enjoyed the happy, relieved look in Dean's eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed, his smile becoming more open and genuine.

Sam was desperate for one of them to be okay, so he let Dean feed him, let the waitress make a fuss over him.

When Dean pretended to be too tired to drive less than an hour after leaving the diner, claiming he needed the sleep, Sam never said a word. They pulled into the cheap hotel, and Sam let Dean pay for the room, because he knew that Dean always got a secret thrill out of being able to pull out the necessary cash and pay for something.

It was an old habit, a hold over from when they had never had enough money for food and heat and shoes. It was the same basic need to provide for Dean's family that had had Dean buying Sam a whole new wardrobe after the fire without so much as a word of protest at the cost.

Sam knew just how tight money could be for hunters, and insisted that he hadn't needed everything Dean had bought, but he knew the truth. Dean had needed to buy the clothes and jacket and boots for Sam, needed to see Sam with a duffel and shampoo and a phone, because he'd never gotten over all the times in his childhood that he or Sam had needed something and he hadn't been able to provide it.

He paid for Sam's stuff in cash, that he had won at pool or poker, not with a false card. Dean had no problem using the fake cards, but Sam knew that in Dean's mind, the cash he'd won was money that he'd earned, and he'd purposefully used those funds to provision his little brother.

He let Dean shunt his off to the motel room when they parked, let Dean carry both bags when he insisted, just as he let Dean lay down the salt lines.

Dean needed to take control over his life, and this was the only way Sam had to help him.

He stopped fighting back his own exhaustion and ambled over to the bed furthest from the window (because God have mercy on anyone who tried to change the sleeping arrangements; Dean slept closest to the door and the window, and Dean was not beyond physically moving a sleeping Sam if he fell asleep somewhere Dean deemed unsafe) and laid down.

He let Dean hover, taking the pain killers Dean handed him without a fuss, drinking the glass of water Dean got him.

He let Dean check out his eyes again, allowed Dean check his pulse and blood pressure, listened to Dean mutter about strokes and blindness and vengeance-crazed ghosts, because he knew what Dean needed more than anything right then was to feel Sam alive, safe and whole under his finger tips.

Dean needed tangible proof that Sam was there with him, needed Sam to be the proof that Dean hadn't failed someone he loved, so that's what Sam would be.

He doubted he'd get much sleep, but he knew Dean wouldn't even try until Sam did, so he closed his eyes and tried to pray the nightmares away for a couple of hours.

Sam couldn't be fixed with a bowl of soup and some aspirin, but maybe Dean could be, so Sam was willing to try.

Because that was how Sam worked, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter of "How To Fix a Winchester". This one has sneaky Sam. So this is a tag of sorts to "Dead in the Water". I know I keep promising stand alone chapters, but the duel perspectives of the first two chapters was kinda fun to write, and I got some good response to the format. Let me know if you would like the next chapter to be Dean waking up to a sick Sam (and lo mein, lol.) or if you'd prefer to next chapter to move on to a new plot bunny. I could always break Sam's arm or something. **

**So, have you guys been following my other stories? Both AU's updated this week, and my CC project, Confessions of a Boy King updated this past weekend, and I really love Chapter Two. I'd love it if you'd pop over and read it if you haven't. I would accept prompts for this project as well as "Confessions of a Boy King", as long as they are basically compliant. **

**Some reviews would be fabulous, especially if you guys want the next chapter to continue this thread. Otherwise I'll just move on and do a sick Sam later in the game.**

**Thank you for reading, I always appreciate your time and support!**

**PS, three of my stories have now been added to communities, which I think is one of the coolest compliments I can receive as an author!**

**As Always,**

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Three**

"The Unfortunate Thing About Swimming In November**"**

Diving into a Wisconsin lake in the pre-dawn hours of a cool November morning isn't really advisable.

The Winchesters hadn't really had a choice, at the time, of course.

Peter's ghost had Lucas, and Andrea and the Sheriff would be in just as much danger, if they went into the lake to try and save him (which the Sheriff discovered, to his misfortune).

But Wisconsin in November was chilly even during the day, and that water was _cold._

Neither Dean nor Sam had thought twice about diving in, the idea never even crossing their minds.

The first time Dean emerged, he gasped not just in need of air but in reaction to the bone deep, muscle aching _cold_ of the water.

His eyes had flown immediately to where his brother had emerged a second later, already calculating how long he and Sam could withstand temperatures like this.

Dad had made sure both boys were strong swimmers with all the necessary rescue skills for a water retrieval, but there was only some much a rescuer could do once they became hypothermic.

For a second, he considered urging Sam out of the freezing water. Dean didn't particularly like the idea of Sam trying to fight the ghost in it's home turf anyway.

Drowning was frighteningly easy, even for the best swimmer, especially in cold water conditions like this, and that wasn't even taking into consideration the homicidal ghost.

Dean could keep trying and Sam could take over if Dean started floundering.

But Sam was already diving back down, lingering at the surface no longer than it took to verify Dean hadn't located Lucas either, before taking in a deep breath and jack knifing back down again.

Dean had no choice but to follow suit, but it seemed like ages before he finally caught sight of Lucas's lifeless body floating deceptively close to the surface of the lake.

He towed the boy to shore, and Sam and Andrea managed to get him breathing quickly enough to avoid any long term damage due to oxygen deprivation. In that regard, the cold may have actually helped.

It certainly didn't help the Winchesters, though.

All three boys were shaking, faces and hands pale, teeth chattering, lips nearly blue.

Andrea hustled them into the house, throwing blankets on the three of them and blasting on the heat as they waited for the ambulance to come check them all out.

The Winchester brothers suffered the cursory examinations with good grace.

Andrea was dancing along the edge of shock, between surviving the attacks on her and Lucas, the revelations about her father and his subsequent death at the hands of the ghost who had murdered her husband.

Keeping busy seemed to be the only thing keeping her functional, so they let her fuss for a few hours.

By that night, when they fell into bed in their motel room, Dean was sniffling, and Sam couldn't seem to shake the cold that had settled into his limbs, making them feel heavy and loose at the same time.

They played it off for Andrea and Lucas the next day, eight hours horizontal and the warmth of the morning sun helping them shoulder on as they said their goodbyes.

They only made it about three hundred miles before they had to stop again.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam glanced speculatively over at Dean as he drove.

Dean had lowered the volume on the radio perhaps half an hour ago, and that was Sam's first clue that he wasn't the only one feeling the effects of their impromptu swim session yesterday.

Dean's eyes were bright, and high spots of color decorated his otherwise pale cheeks, confirming Sam's hunch that Dean was running at least a mild fever.

Dean's body tended to handle illness rather well, though he could get incredibly clingy and cranky, Dean's colds tended to simply remain colds, and his fevers normally broke after a day or two.

Sam himself was...not quite so lucky.

Oddly enough, he didn't seem to catch sick as often as Dean, who caught the normal varieties of colds and flu and stomach bugs.

No, Sam's immune system preferred more exotic prey. Though he didn't get sick as often, when he did, he tended to get much, much sicker.

Sam could remember half a dozen times Dean had caught strep throat when they were kids. Sam never seemed to catch it though, even if they had been sharing a room or even sodas. The one time he had caught it, when he was twelve, he hadn't just come down with strep throat. Within days his sore throat had morphed into a full body rash, a raging fever and John had been forced to take him to the ER for IV antibiotics and fluids, because it was more than a week before Sam could swallow easily.

Sam just hoped his body broke form this time around, because he could already tell that Dean was going to be down for the count for a couple of days, sooner rather than later unless he missed his guess.

Sam wasn't running a fever yet, but he honestly felt god-awful. Over twenty four hours later, and he still couldn't seem to get warm. He was bundled into four layers total, and had the heating vents aimed right at them, while Dean had already stripped down to his t-shirt.

A moment later, Dean reached over and shut the heat off, and Sam bit his tongue to stop from complaining. Over than the energy stealing cold that was blanketing his body, he hadn't come down with any other symptoms yet, and while he could always find some other layer to put on (he had to have something else clean in his duffel, right?) Dean could only take so much off.

The trick would be getting Dean to acknowledge he was sick enough to stop for the night without triggering his stubborn, macho, sense of indestructibility.

If Sam worded his suggestion the wrong way, Dean would drive an extra four hundred miles just to spite him

Dean sneezed, looking over at Sam quickly to see if Sam would say anything. Sam wisely remained silent, handing Dean a tissue without even making eye contact, and from the corner of his eye he saw Dean start to relax again.

So, Dean was still in stage one of the Dean Winchester Stages of Illness.

Denial.

That meant Sam had to play along, or risk antagonizing his brother into doing something stupid, like tequila body shots with the first lady bar tender he could find, just to prove that he wasn't sick.

Dean sneezed again, and Sam purposefully looked away, out the window. If he was very careful, and played his cards just right, he could have Dean thinking that stopping was his idea.

Normally, Sam would achieve this by hinting to Dean that Sam himself was, in fact, _NOT SICK_.

Dean's perverse sense of older brother righteousness would be almost guaranteed to interpret this as "Sam's sick and lying about it, therefore I must save him from himself by pulling into the very first motel I see".

This was a tried and true method that Sam had shamelessly employed on numerous occasions.

The only problem was, this time around, Sam was pretty sure he actually was going to be sick soon and Dean was too smart not to pick up on the signs of a sick Sam, even with his own illness dulling instincts.

Normally Dean would have already realized that Sam was shaking under his five layers (he did, in fact, have another clean sweatshirt in his duffel), but his own malady was making his responses slower than normal.

So, how to go about this in a way that would get Dean medicated and into a bed while Sam was still upright and functioning well enough to get Dean started on the road to recovery, before Sam's own body failed on him?

Once Dean picked up on the fact that Sam was coming down sick also, he would be almost impossible to deal with. Cranky and demanding when he didn't feel good, he morphed into another person altogether when Sam caught something, taking it almost as a personal insult that Sam's immune system had betrayed them.

Dean would insist on taking care of Sam, not paying any attention to his own illness. The annoying fact that Sam did tend to get sicker than Dean would only validate Dean's actions, in Dean's mind anyway, so Sam's only hope was to get Dean started on getting better before Sam started getting worse.

Sam repressed another shudder, knowing he should probably get the jump on his cold by taking some medicine, but he couldn't with Dean watching.

Sam spied an exit sign up ahead, and knew the next town after this was more than an hour away, which was frankly more time than he wanted to spend in the Impala at the moment. The cold and alternating shakes were making his muscles ache, and he needed to stretch badly.

Deciding that food was the way to go, as Dean had been somewhat preoccupied over the weight Sam had lost after Jess had been killed, he turned around, reaching in the back seat, moving things around as if he were looking for something.

"Whatcha doin', Sammy?" Dean asked, voice strained and teeth gritted, and Sam winced sympathetically, imagining the headache that was probably accompanying Dean's fever.

"Nothing." Sam said, shifting around more than he needed to on purpose, before settling down back against the seat.

"Dude." Dean gritted out. "What. Are. You. Looking. For?" He pronounced each word precisely and cautiously, as if a careless syllable might take the top of his head off.

Sam shrugged. "Just looking to see if we had anymore of those power bars back there." He said casually, as if it were no big deal.

Dean's eyebrows scrunched in surprise. "You hungry?" he said, voice pitched upward in question, glancing over to Sam quickly before looking back at the road.

Sam shrugged again. "I'm fine." Sam made a point to sound dismissive, as if he could care less if he ate or not.

Dean scowled in response, and Sam could have grinned at the sight, if he had let himself.

"Lucas and Andrea made us some sandwiches, but, to be honest, dude, I'm not sure Andrea helped as much as she could have. They looked kinda...off." Dean said, and Sam repressed a shudder, trying to imagine a sandwich that looked so bad Dean Winchester was unwilling to take a crack at it.

"No problem." Sam replied easily. "I'm more tired than anything. If you're cool, I'm just gonna sleep, I think. Unless you want me to drive?"

"No. And No. Don't go to sleep hungry dude, you'll be a cranky ass bitch with a migraine in the morning if you do." Dean ordered, and Sam had to look out the window for a moment to hide his grin.

Dean was right, when it came down to being tired or hungry, Sam would fall asleep hungry everytime and not wake up until morning, often accompanied by a headache caused by low blood sugar.

Dean hit his signal, easing onto the exit ramp. "We'll find a diner." He announced.

And on to bargaining, Sam though to himself.

Cue the future lawyer.

"Wish we had time to grab Chinese." Sam said a moment later, as if he hadn't just seen the take-out place on Dean's side a moment ago.

Dean frowned again. "Chinese don't sound half-bad, but the place we just passed was a hole in wall. Food's probably awesome, but it said take-out only."

Sam made a face. "We should just get back on the highway, unless you're hungry too. When we stop for the night, I'll get some food delivered. I'm really beat though. I'll take an aspirin now, so I don't wake up with a headache when we stop." Sam said cleverly, killing two birds with one stone as he reached into his duffel for the bottle of aspirin, making sure Dean could see as he shook three out.

As predicted, Dean reached over, laying his hand over Sam's just as Sam was about to pitch the tablets down his throat.

"Dammit, Sammy, you know better than to take aspirin like that on an empty stomach, just give me a minute and I'll find us a damn diner, got it?" Dean ordered tersely.

"It's fine, Dean, I'm not gonna starve to death. I might fall asleep sitting here talking to you though. Not sure why I'm so tired." Sam replied.

"Might have something to do with the non-stop nightmares you've been having." He heard Dean mutter.

"Dean..." Sam said warningly, before changing the subject back. "Whatever the reason, I don't really like the idea of sitting in a diner this tired, man. I'll probably fall asleep in my salad."

Dean made a face when Sam mentioned his normal diner food of choice, and then his shoulders sagged, and Sam knew he had him. The mention of the salad was really the straw that broke the camel's back, as he knew Dean refused to believe that any entree composed primarily of lettuce could ever provide enough food to keep a grown man from starving. It had become a personal mission of Dean's recently to make Sam eat what Dean perceived to be "real food".

"There's a motel right up the street." Dean said tiredly. "We'll get a room and order some Chinese. Then you can get horizontal. I'll just watch some TV or something."

'Sure, you will', Sam thought, smiling a little to himself.

They pulled into the motel just a few moments later, Sam tossing Dean the keys to the room so he could grab both duffels out of the car. He purposefully left one bag in the trunk though.

Walking back inside, he set the duffels on each of the beds. Snapping his fingers, he said, "Shoot, I really must be tired. Left the salt in the car." Grabbing a take out menu from by the phone, he tossed it to Dean before heading back out.

"Try and order something that has vegetables in it." Sam teased.

He walked back out to the Impala slowly, no longer forcing himself quite so hard now that he didn't have an audience.

His arms and legs felt like they were made of lead, and Sam swallowed down the aspirin he'd avoided taking earlier, taking the power bar out of his hoodie pocket and chewing it quickly so he didn't get a stomach ache.

Or get caught.

He leaned against the Impala, shivering in the cool night air. He wanted to be back inside the room, pronto, but he was guessing Dean needed a few more minutes. Opening the passenger door, he eased himself down, taking out his phone so it would look like he was just texting someone if Dean glanced out the window, though Sam doubted he would.

He leaned his head back, letting the headrest take the weight of his head of his aching neck.

It was going to be a long night.

A few moments later, he grabbed the last bag, and locked the car, shuffling slowly into the room.

It might be a long night for Sam, but not for Dean.

Dean had fallen asleep where he had sat down, upper part of his body splayed back across the bed, feet still on the ground.

Sam grinned tiredly.

His older brother was stubborn to the end, and he still had that damn menu clutched in his hand. Sam would have to stay up for the next hour or so, just in case Dean had managed to actually place an order before falling asleep, and some poor delivery guy showed up with lo mein.

He wished he could have gotten some aspirin down Dean, also, but a hand to Dean's forehead told him that Dean's fever was only a low grade one, so maybe letting it run it's course was for the best.

Marshaling the last of his strength, he pulled Dean up further onto the bed as gently as he could. Dean would never normally sleep through something like that, but his illness had him dead to the world.

Sam tugged off Dean's boots and outer shirt, then pulled the lightest blanket in the room over his sleeping brother.

He laid the salt lines, and secured the room.

Then he pulled up a chair and sat down to wait for the Chinese that probably wasn't coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yay! Chapter four of How To Fix a Winchester. This ends this particular sick-fic, though I might do a different variation later on. I would love canon prompts for this story, if anyone has any ideas. My two AU's are both pretty demanding to write, and sometimes it's difficult to get inspiration for this project while holding those other story lines in my head.**

**Please review if you have a moment, I love hearing from you.**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my babies (but seriously- MY. BABIES. Screw with them and I will salt and burn you! jk. Sort of.)**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Four**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Long Nights"**

Dean stirred drowsily, opening his eyes slowly.

He didn't remember falling asleep, didn't actually remember where exactly he was.

His head pounding, he stretched out one arm and then another, feeling around hazily.

Okay.

Bed. Definitely a bed.

That was good, he supposed, though why he still had his jeans on in bed was anyone's guess. On top he was down to just his undershirt, but that was enough to make the sheet he was laying under stick to his body, sweat dampening the thin material.

Maybe Sam had undressed him?

Sam was a prude, it would be just like him to only undress half of Dean, but the question remained, why had Dean needed help undressing? And why the holy hell did his head feel like it was going to explode? Did he get stupid drunk last night?

_Sam_.

Dean's mind circled back around to it's default setting in his confusion. _Take-care-of-Sammy-mode_.

Where was Sam?

Dean pushed himself up with a painful groan. Finally managing to sit more or less upright, he looked around.

His mind settled a little when he spied his kid slumped at the motel's small table, fast asleep, head pillowed on his arms.

A brown bag was beside him and Dean could smell what he was pretty sure was Chinese takeout, and now it was starting to come back to Dean slowly.

Sam had been tired and hungry, and Dean hadn't wanted to admit it but he had been starting to feel pretty crappy. He must have fallen asleep right after he ordered, and Sam got him in bed, then fell asleep himself. He'd complained about feeling pretty tired, after all.

Forehead scrunched, he studied his brother sleepily. Something was off about this whole picture, but Dean was damned if he could put his finger on it at that moment. His head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, and he could no longer deny he was running a fever. As he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt, a cough made it's way up from deep in his chest, and Dean finally acquiesced.

Okay, dammit.

He was...maybe...possibly...just a tiny bit sick.

Wandering over to the gear, he poked around until he found some aspirin. Tossing back two (he probably needed cold meds instead, but they made him feel like crawling out of his skin, and Dean always felt vulnerable and off-kilter when he had to take them.)

Pulling on a dry shirt, he wandered over to where Sam slept, looking in the bag experimentally as he tried to remember what he ordered.

Apparently he had heeded Sam's plea for vegetables, because he saw beef and broccoli as well as lo mein and egg rolls.

Grabbing an egg roll out of the bag, he took a bite, wincing as his sore throat protested the assualt.

"Sam. Sam. _Sammy_." Dean chanted tiredly, already resigned to the battle ahead to wake up his sleeping brother. A half asleep Sam was the world's most stubborn, dangerous creature.

If someone were to burst in shooting at that very moment, Dean's brother would awaken instantly, armed and bright eyed and bushy-freaking-tailed.

If a baddie showed up, Sam would be awake and on the attack before the monster even knew what the hell had hit him.

Sam instincts were incredible about that kind of thing, but unfortunately for Dean, they were also spot on, because unless a baddie _were_ to show up, the kid wasn't waking up. Take the monster out of the equation and an over-tired Sam was just six feet, four inches of useless dead weight.

Dean had spent the entirety of Sam's seventeenth year testing Sam's crazy ability to filter out anything unessential, but he'd never tripped him up, even once.

_A werewolf walk down the block from their car?_ Sam's awake.

_Dean screaming in Sam's ear as if a banshee was chewing on his intestines_? Sam just rolled over.

"Sammy-Sammy-Sammy." Dean continued his chant, now poking at Sam's forehead with one finger as he continued his _move-my-sleeping-sasquatch-brother_ routine.

He was only about a third of the way through, if he remembered the stages correctly, when Sam jerked up suddenly, eyes shooting open, and Dean started looking around instinctively, cause, shit, that wasn't supposed to happen and where was the monster?

"Wha-what?" Sam said, blinking his eyes repeatedly, already leaning forward a little, like a deflating balloon losing air, and Dean prayed for the aspirin to kick in as he shoved Sam back gently, forcing the kid upright in his chair again.

"Eat." Dean kept the command simple, trying to hold on to even one thought at a time in his mind was a little like trying to catch a firefly.

"What?" Sam said, blinking again, and Dean frowned as that feeling of _missing-something_ swept over him.

"Eat. No headache." Dean's words were half-slurred with exhaustion, he was still burning up, the air in the room felt cold against his hot skin, though he noticed Sam had the heater cranked up.

"F-o-o-d." Dean drew the word out slowly, as he tiredly pushed the container of beef and broccoli over to his sleep-drunk brother.

Sam looked at it bemusedly, like Dean had just handed him a coconut or something and told him to chow down.

Using one finger to scoot a pair of chopsticks over to his brother, Dean leaned back and picked up his own half-heartedly, determined to eat at least a little so the aspirin didn't eat it's way through the lining of his stomach.

Sam studied the chopsticks like they were a physics equation, and Dean snorted in tired amusement. Sam finally reached out and picked up a plastic fork from the table, fingers clumsy as he opened the plastic lid on the container of food.

"What are you doing?" Dean muttered, food halfway to his mouth.

Sam paused, the fork held in mid air, looking really confused now.

"Did...you want the beef and broccoli?" He finally asked, and Dean wondered if Sam was actually now sleep-talking and sleep-eating, because the kid was obviously not operating on his normal level.

"You've used chopsticks since you were six, Sammy." Dean chided gently, slumping in his seat a little more. "You taught me, kiddo, remember?" And it was true. Dad had taken them to an amazing hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on the west coast that year, and Sam had been fascinated by the older gentleman in the back using chopsticks.

John had chided Sam for interrupting the man's meal, but Sam's unerring knack for walking into complete strangers good graces had held true, and soon Sam was sitting contentedly beside the man, an uncomfortable Dean hovering as the man's fingers had shaped Sam's much smaller ones around the chop sticks. Dean hadn't liked a stranger being so close to his kid, but the delight on Sammy's face soon had a reluctant Dean sitting across the table from them, as it became Sam's turn to shape Dean's fingers on the utensils.

It had become a thing, between the two of them, to always use chopsticks whenever they ate Chinese food, and Dean hadn't thought about the unconscious ritual in years, until Sam had unwittingly broken tradition.

"Huh." Sam said, blinking some more, and Dean's brow creased again. Forcing back the cough that was trying to climb back up his throat again, he waved at Sam to continue eating however he wanted. Dean was feeling too crappy to worry about chopsticks, and Sam was obviously no where near awake.

Sam shook his head again, listing halfway to one side, before straightening again and taking a slow bite. He managed maybe half a dozen more before his hand dropped to his lap, still clutching his fork.

"Sleep, Sam." Dean mumbled, more than ready for his own bed, but a half awake Sam would hapily walk-fall down a flight of stairs and the kid was too damn heavy to lift off the floor. Smothering another cough, he pushed off slowly, giving himself a moment as the room didn't seem entirely happy staying level. Finally he walked the two steps over to Sam, dropping a heavy hand to Sam's shoulders, but Sam didn't even react, and Dean nodded to himself.

Sam. _Bed_.

Then Dean. _Bed_.

Good plan.

"Come on, kiddo, time for bed." He said, slipping into the terminology of their youth in his tired daze.

Sam looked at him blankly for a moment. "You're sick." He said, scrunching up his nose and Dean couldn't help but laugh, even though it turned into a cough at the end.

"Yeah. Maybe just a little. And you're so tired you won't even remember my admitting it tomorrow." Dean chuckled some more, but Sam's frown deepened a little.

"You should take some medicine." He said solemnly, and Dean just nodded, willing the kid into bed so he could crawl into his own and die in peace.

"Already did." He soothed, knowing a tired Sam could fixate on small details, and wanting to avoid the hassle.

"Cold medicine. Not aspirin." Sam elaborated, as he pushed up unsteadily, and Dean reached out without thinking to steady him. The act nearly unbalanced them both, and Dean was pretty much done with this whole ridiculous thing.

"Sleep, Sam." He ordered firmly, and thankfully, this time Sam just nodded. Dean turned to check the salt lines,verifying Sam had laid them correctly. He knew Sam would never have fallen asleep without doing it, but it was a lifetime old habit, and Dean knew he'd probably never break it.

Satisfied, he turned around, only to scowl at the sight before him.

Sam was in the wrong goddamned bed.

Fuck.

"Sam." Dean said crossly, and cursed the fact that Sam was already laying down. Dean might very well have to drag him to the other bed, but he damn well would if he had to. Dean slept closest to the door, and closest to the window.

Every night. Every time.

Period.

"Sammy!" He raised his voice as much as his sore throat would allow, and again Sam surprised him by jerking up, looking around in disorientation.

"What's wrong?" He mumbled, swaying again, and Deam was caught by the sudden understanding of exactly what had been bugging him through their entire meal, short though it was.

Sam had put on his sick hoodie.

"Dude. You're sick!" Dean accused self-righteously, brows lowered like thunderclouds, and Sam looked at him helplessly.

"I'm tired." Sam replied, swaying a little where he sat, and Dean reached for him instinctively.

"You're wearing your sick hoodie." Dean said, lips pursed, and Sam shook his head tiredly.

"Burned in the fire." He muttered, eyes a little unfocused.

"And then I bought you three new ones, and that's the one you hate, but you didn't want to tell me, so you only put it on when you feel like crap."

"Oh.." Sam said, nodding like Dean's words made perfect sense to him. "Yeah."

Dean cursed again, because Sam really was pretty damn out of it if he just admitted to being sick. A little sore throat? Pop a cough drop and kill the baddie. Sprained wrist? Wrap the fucker and torch the baddie.

And so on and so on.

"How many layers are you even wearing?" Dean asked, muscles aching and head screaming at him to lay down, but a sick Sam was top priority.

For Dean to admit to feeling sick the way he had earlier meant he felt god-awful. For Sam to admit it, he probably needed antibiotics and fluids and pain killers and a hot nurse with a shit ton of ice.

Because Sammy didn't get sick.

Dean's kid got really, incredibly, stupidly sick, with things that Dean had never even heard of, like pleurisy and scarlet fever.

"S'cold." Sam mumbled, and Dean reached out for his forehead, jerking his hand back at the heat he could feel even on top of his own fever.

He helped Sam over to the right bed, and got him settled, wrestling off three of Sam's layers with the promise of giving him both blankets.

"Didn't want to tell you." Sam mumbled, and Dean had to lean closer to hear him.

"How come, Sammy?" He asked, voice gentle now that he understood Sam's exhaustion and confusion.

"Cause you take care of me and not you." Sam finished sleepily, and Dean felt his heart swell as he realized that Sam had probably felt bad for a while now, but had let Dean sleep so he could start on his own healing process.

"Big brother prerogative, kiddo." He scolded affectionately, pushing Sam's hair off his forehead, frowning again at the heat.

He walked painfully over to the fist aid kit and dug around for some medicine for Sam, and a handful of the day time pills for himself. They wrecked havoc on his system, like a hit of speed, Dean wouldn't sleep for hours once he took them, but that was what Dean needed, because Sam had spiked sudden high fevers like this only a handful of times before, but on two of those occasions, John had bundled Sam into an ER.

Sam swallowed the pills obediently enough, and Dean wondered why the hell he'd taken so long to catch on, because Sam had never been a particularly obedient kid.

But he was Dean's kid none the less.

Settling down to watch an already sleeping Sam, Dean crossed his legs on Sam's bed, tossing back the pills.

It was gonna be a long night.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam hadn't wanted to tell Dean so soon, but the words had sort of tumbled out all on their own. Sam had awoken at the table, and the cold was still there, burrowing into his bones, swimming in his veins, replacing his blood with ice and coating his limbs with concrete, every movement too hard, too slow. His thoughts swam randomly around in his head, and he couldn't have repeated a third of what Dean had said to him for a million dollars cash.

He had wanted to avoid telling Dean at least a little longer, because Dean was nowhere near being better yet, but his body wasn't cooperating.

His chest ached, and his head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds now, instead of a mere hundred.

Dean's observation about Sam's hoodie preferences had been enough to discombobulate Sam completely, and he surrendered to the inevitably of his brother catching on to his illness.

At least Dean had gotten a few hours sleep and taken some medicine.

Deciding to be happy with small victories, he relented, laying down on the (farthest from the window) bed, looking up at his brother like he had a dozen other times when he was sick.

Dean was pulling up a chair, and Sam took the opportunity to study his face, trying to ascertain if he thought Dean really had taken some medicine.

Dean did look a little better, still miserable, but the lines of pain on his forehead had softened some, and that was a good sign.

Satisfied, he let his eyes drift closed, knowing that Dean wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

Dean would sit vigil until Sam was better, because Dean took care of Sam just like Sam took care of Dean.

That was what it meant to be a Winchester.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: You guys have no idea what it took to get this chapter up. My laptop is on strike yet again, and things may still get ugly.**

**Hmmm, notes. Okay. If you follow either of my AU's, they both updated late Tuesday. My canon project, "Confession's of a Boy King" now has two chapters, please check it out if you never have because I really love it, but it doesn't seem to get much screen time.**

**As for "How To Fix A Winchester". This chapter is in response to the prompt I got from Shannanigans, who suggested something with a _"drunk/drugged/concussed/confused Sam and awesome big brother_ _Dean_", so here you go! **

**I hope you like my take on it. I obviously made up some leprechaun lore to suit my purposes here, so forgive me. If you'd like to send in a prompt, please do, just keep it something basically cannon. No missing limbs or anything, please. Also, no smut in this story, and no ships. No offense, this project simply isn't meant to be a romance.**

**Also, the joke Sam makes about the towels is not mine, I based it off a joke I saw on Pinterest. It was something along the lines of "I'd get out of bed, but the blankets have accepted me as one of their own, and if I leave now, I may lose their trust." Just wanted to get that out there, in the interest of full disclosure. Not trying to steal it, just borrow it because it's funny.**

**I would peg this anytime in season's one or two, no later. Since I wrote it in response to a prompt, I didn't worry about tying it to a specific episode.**

**Reviews are love!**

**As Always, **

_**EverReader**_

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**How To Fix a Winchester- Chapter Five**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Leprechauns"**

Sam dodged around the corner, his prey a dull gray blur ahead of him. They didn't usually hunt leprechauns, they were more of a nuisance than a hazard, but for all the things the legends got wrong, they got one thing right.

Leprechauns loved gold.

Real gold, fool's gold, gold foil, gold paint. The small, monkey-ish creatures loved any and all things shiny.

They had startled a nest of the creatures while they they were investigated allegations of an old house haunted by a poltergeist. The poltergeist rumor hadn't panned out, but the leprechauns were certainly real enough. Unfortunately, they had discovered that little fact when one of the sticky fingered bandits had whisked Dean's amulet right off his neck.

Dean had reacted predictably, pulling his gun and threatening to blast it straight back to Ireland, but Sam had appealed to him to at least let Sam try before Dean killed it. Several of the other Leprechauns appeared to be infants, and if Dean killed their mother, they would all die.

Supernatural or not, Leprechauns were mostly harmless, and nearly extinct, after hundreds of years of their nests being destroyed for the valuables within.

Sam finally cornered the wily creature, trapping it beside a towering stack of boxes in the corner of one dim room.

The creature scurried back in forth, like a squirrel or a chipmunk, and Sam readied himself to pounce, reminding himself not to land on the creature and squish it.

Sam lunged, and in the ensuring scuffle, the tower of boxes (thankfully empty)crashed down around them, sending up clouds of dust.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was more irritated than alarmed as he strode through the door, gun still ready in hand.

He wanted his damn amulet back, and he'd shoot the whole damn nest if that was what it took.

Sam was sitting in the center of the scattered boxes, dusty and dirty, holding up Dean's amulet with a grin that could have rivaled any triumphant eight-year old at that moment, and Dean chuckled despite himself.

"Well, at least you won." Dean grumbled good naturedly.

He stepped forward when Sam suddenly wavered a little, starting to list to one side before straightening.

"Uh-oh." Sam said, staring at his wrist, where three small spikes protruded.

"Shit!" Dean cursed, lunging forward as Sam listed again, this time nearly going over, giggling just a little.

"Guess it wasn't the Mama..." Sam said, giggling again.

Well, this was just swell.

While infant and female leprechauns were completely harmless, the males (who were much more rare) had the unfortunate ability to shoot aggressors with sharp, pointed spikes that were dipped by a substance somewhere between acid and morphine.

Sam had just wrestled Daddy Leprechaun.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"Row-row-row-row-row-row-"

"_Your boat_, Sam. The next words are, '_your boat_'" Dean said with as much patience as he could muster as he got his drugged little brother folded into the Impala.

It had taken them nearly half an hour to navigate the stairs and front porch of the old house. At some point, his slap-happy little brother had seen something that had triggered his impromptu recital of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat", and if Dean had even the slightest idea of what that evil object had been, he would happily salt and burn that fucker.

"Dean, did we get your necklace back?" Sam asked, pulling up suddenly, nearly toppling both brothers out.

"Yes, Sam." Dean said patiently (for the fifth time).

"Did I get it back?" Sam asked, wide-eyed and grinning.

Dean laughed a little again, despite the irritation of this whole situation. A smaller guy might just sleep through all the venom three spikes would have injected into his system, but not his big-little brother, oh no.

Right now, Sam was the world's happiest drunk. Five hours from now, he might try and barricade himself in the motel, thinking the sky was falling.

Might as well enjoy the happy while he could, he figured.

"_I_ got it back." Sam asserted, watching Dean's face.

Dean took advantage of Sam's inebriation to reach out (and up) and ruffle the kid's hair, something he'd always loved doing but hadn't got much chance to do once Sam hit fifteen or so.

"Yeah, kiddo. You got it back." Dean said affectionately.

"I won." Sam confided with an over exaggerated wink, and Dean reminded himself to get Sammy drunk a little more often.

His kid didn't laugh enough some days.

"Row-row-row-row-row-row-row..."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"Sam. Sam. Sam." Dean chanted tiredly, banging his head rhythmically against the bathroom door.

Sam had, predictably, locked himself in the bathroom.

Apparently, their motel room had very aggressive bedspreads, and Sam said they were damaging the rooms 'chi' which somehow was damaging his own 'chi' and Dean was about to drown his own personal 'chi' in a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Sammmyyyy." Dean sang out.

"No." Sam said, a single, stubborn monosyllable that reminded Dean so strongly of when Sam was two that he wanted to cry for just a moment.

"I took them away, Sam. The big, bad MEAN bedspreads are gone, okay Sammy? All gone. It's safe to come out now." Dean cajoled.

"No." Sam's voice echoed again from behind the bathroom door, and Dean pulled in the biggest, most calming breath he could manage.

Okay.

Plan B.

Sam hadn't been stung by a leprechaun in over a decade (the last time being when he was twelve and had decided to capture and train one, for 'science').

It had only been one spike, in the leg, instead of three near a pulse point, and Dean and John (okay, mostly Dean) had only had to deal with loopy Sam for a few hours before the kid had passed out, but Dean still remembered a few tricks Bobby had told them over the phone.

Dean reached over to the table by the bathroom door, picking up one of the candy bars on the table.

He rattled it enticingly, sure to make the action as noisy as possible.

"I'll give you a candy bar." He offered, shaking it again. "You were just saying a little while ago that you wanted some chocolate."

The body reacted to leprechaun venom strangely, speeding up the victims metabolisms, and one of the results was low blood sugar that had the victims not only craving sugar, but sometimes needing it to prevent shock.

Other than the low blood sugar, it was fairly harmless, just uncomfortable. The victim's heart rate and pulse might speed up some, but as long as someone was with them, they usually rode it out fine.

Sam hadn't ate in a couple of hours though, and he'd drained his second soda over an hour later, so he was due to refuel.

Dean just hoped he could use it to bait Sam out of the bathroom. Dean could have simply broke the door down, but the venom often caused victims to feel exaggerated emotions, so startling Sam was something Dean wanted to avoid if he could.

"No." Sam's voice, if possible, grew even more stubborn.

Blowing out slowly, Dean counted to three. Reminding himself he was going with honey and not vinegar, he knelt down and slowly pushed the first candy bar under the door.

It was quickly grabbed up, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief that at least he wasn't going to have to shove the damn thing down his kid's throat. He'd been worried that his persnickety brother might be the one leprechaun-venom victim in the world who needed candy but wouldn't eat it.

Within seconds, Dean watched as Sam pushed the wrapper back out from under the door.

Well, so far, so good...

"Was that good, kiddo? I got another one for you if you want to come out and get it." Dean called hopefully.

A longer pause, before Sam said, "I'm sorry, but I've made friends with the towels, and if I leave now, I may lose their trust." He actually sounded regretful, and Dean somehow managed to resist tearing out a handful of his own hair.

Slowly, he knelt down and pushed the second candy bar partially under the door.

"I really shouldn't..." He heard Sam say doubtfully, and he choked down a tired laugh.

"Oh, trust me, you really, really should, dude." Dean argued, as calmly as he could. He waggled the candy bar a little, like a kid playing with a cat, and after only another moment, the candy bar was snatched from his hands.

"Getting thirsty yet, Sammy?" Dean called, popping the top on a can of orange soda as loudly as he could.

The water turning on in the tap in the bathroom in response had Dean cussing again.

Alright. Time to bring out the big guns.

He reached over and grabbed the last of his arsenal of candy.

Sam's ultimate, all time favorite of favorites.

Peanut M&M's.

Tearing one corner of the package, he carefully poured out three and set the rest of the bag on the table next to the soda.

Kneeling, he did his best to look under the gap beneath the bathroom door.

He could barely make out his brother, sitting on the bathroom tile with his back against the tub, and Dean hoped he wasn't getting too cold.

Carefully he took aim, shooting the M&M across the floor, under the door, rolling until he could see it rebound off of one of Sam's crossed legs.

The kid pounced on it immediately, and Dean held back a chuckle.

He waited a second before shooting the second, and Sam snatched up that one even faster.

He waited a longer moment before barely rolling the third under the door, wanting to make sure his brother got his point. That candy, too, soon disappeared and Dean stood up, stretching his cramped muscles. He forced himself away from the door, sitting as casually as he could in one of the two dinette chairs.

A long moment passed, and then another, and Dean felt like a man in one of those ridiculous old movies, waiting in the hospital waiting room for his baby to be born.

Slowly, by painful, tedious increments, the bathroom door creaked open and Dean felt his muscles start to relax as he got his first good look at Sam in over an hour.

He was pale, with wild spots of color high up on his cheeks. His hair was disheveled and Dean resisted the urge to take a photo.

"More." Sam said petulantly, like the worlds biggest toddler, and Dean gestured as graciously as he could to the other chair.

Sam approached it cautiously, sitting like he suspected Dean of some nefarious trick.

He settled in quickly enough when he spied the M&M's, soon happily munching on the bag, tossing the candies high in the air and trying to catch them with his mouth, Dean wincing every time he succeeded, images of a desperate Dean trying to perform the Heimlich on his Sasquatch-sized little brother running through his mind.

Sam quickly finished his new soda, and turned pleading, puppy dog eyes on his big brother.

"Oh, man, you're kidding, right?" Dean said, looking at him in exasperation.

"Root beer?" Sammy said hopefully, bottom lip stuck out artfully, and there was no way he didn't practice this when Dean wasn't looking, because how else did a grown man pull shit like that off?

"You owe me. You owe me big. You owe me _pie_." Dean muttered, pushing out of his chair.

"Stay right there!" He ordered sternly.

He was hesitant to leave Sam in his room, but he had no way of telling if Sam simply wanted the soda because he wanted it, or because his body was signaling to him that he needed it, and Dean couldn't risk it.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Three minutes.

_Three minutes, tops._

Dean would swear by it, and yet, when he returned, Sam was no where to be seen.

"Jesus H. Christ on a frickin' cupcake!" Dean swore, striding to the bathroom.

No Sam.

He went back to the motel, glancing out into the parking lot.

No Sam.

He was about to mount a full scale search when he spied a (Sam-sized) foot sticking out from under the far bed.

"Oh, you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME1" Dean said, eyes bugging out.

How the hell had Sam even fit under that bed?

Laying down beside the bed, he saw that Sam had, somehow managed to do just that.

"Hi Dean." Sam said quietly, and this time it wasn't stubborn two-year old Sam, but frightened five-year old Sam, and Dean found that his voice and demeanor changed automatically in response.

"Hey, kiddo, what happened?" He said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Sam's dusty forehead.

"You remember that movie when we were kids?" Sam whispered.

Dean opened his mouth, than closed it. Opening it again, he said, "Um, can you be a little more specific?"

"The one where everything talked." Sam said, eyes glancing around nervously.

"Okay..." Dean said, trying to follow his brother's logic. "Something talked?" He asked

"The toaster." Sam confided.

Dean tried not to frown or roll his eyes. "Sammy, our room doesn't have a toaster." He pointed out softly.

"Not scared of the toaster. The toaster was the hero." Sam said, as if Dean were the one making no sense.

"Okay, well if the toaster that we don't have isn't what scared you, then what did?" Dean tried again, vainly fighting against a smile.

"The air conditioner." Sam whispered, as if the unit could hear them. "It always scared me when I was a kid."

"Did it...did it...do something scary?" Dean asked, and he was never, never letting Sam live this down.

"It came on." Sam replied, and Dean finally gave in to the laughter, as his brother tried vainly to blow dust bunnies into Dean's face.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean sat on the flow in the far corner of the room, legs splayed out. Sam's dirty head pillowed in his lap, and Dean stroked Sam's hair by rote, tired fingers combing the tangled locks.

This was the worst part of the venom, when the victim came down from the high.

Sam had thankfully slept through this as a kid, but a decade later, Sam's instincts were too finely honed to sleep through the withdrawal, which had his nerves tingling and jumping, screaming at the same instincts that kept a hunter alive in a normal situation.

Sam was obviously exhausted, but unable to sleep, or to stay asleep, anyway.

His muscles were twitching, hands and legs jumping restlessly every once and a while. They had tried laying on one of the beds, but Sam had complained that he felt like he was falling. Then they had tried the floor right by the bed, but Sam had felt too exposed.

They'd finally settled in the corner, and while Sam continued to get up and prowl the room restlessly every once and a while, working off his jitters, the episodes were coming less and less frequently, and the periods Sam spent laying down, head resting on Dean's thigh were growing longer and longer.

Dean had taken to talking softly to Sammy, saying anything and everything that came to mind. Pointless, trivial, made up, it didn't matter to Sam, who had latched onto his brother's voice like a lifeline.

So Dean talked, for hours, about every stupid thing he could think of, till his voice grew hoarse and tired and his words dried up, and then he started humming Metallica.

Another hour, and Dean thought Sam might finally be over the worst.

He hadn't gotten up since Dean started humming, and though Dean continued to card his fingers through his hair, he wasn't sure which Winchester he was comforting at this point. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Sam had been stung, and neither brother had slept in that time. The sun was nearly setting again, a whole day lost to Sam's dilemma, and Dean was barely keeping his own eye's open.

He kept humming, stopping and starting sporadically whenever Sam shifted position, like a tired parent and his newborn.

Though, when he thought about it, the last time they had laid on the floor like this, Sam had been bit by a black dog. Black Dog bites could fester like a bitch, and John had shot Sam up with a righteous cocktail of antibiotics and steroids, and Sam had had to ride out a rather rough night, much like this, though that time hadn't been so severe.

Sam had also still been small enough for Dean to carry easily (okay, relatively easily).

Watching Sam's breathing finally even out, Dean leaned back against the wall fully. His back was gonna kill him in the morning, and so was Sam's, but sleep had become a precious commodity, and damned if Dean was waking his kid now.

So they slept right there, tangled together much as they had their whole lives, one beginning where the other ended, and if you asked them right then, they wouldn't have been able to tell you who was who.

They didn't particular care either.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello All,**

**So this story is very popular, but no one seems to be sending in prompts. I'll be honest, my two other AU's are pretty intense, and they take up a lot of my day-dreaming capacities, so prompts would be helpful in moving this story a little faster. Hurt Sam, hurt Dean, hurt everyone. Just no romance, cause that's not the point. Anyway, enjoy, this chapter took on a life of it's own. **

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.**

**How To Fix a Winchester – Chapter Six**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Graveyards"**

The were many dangerous aspects to hunting. There was the running and the shooting and the dying, of course. There was the lack of pay, crap hours, zero recognition and don't even get Dean started on holidays.

There was no insurance unless you faked it. There was no time for family or friends. There were crappy diners and skeezy motels with questionable standards on things like cleanliness and laundry.

But, in Dean's opinion, the worst was the waiting.

Wait for a case. Wait for a case to break. Wait for the monster to show up. Wait for Bobby/Sam/John to tell Dean what to shoot at the nightmare of the week so it would die for good this time.

Waiting, of course, had it's own tiers of suckiness, Dean's own personal standard measure of "how much crappier can this get before I start shooting things I shouldn't."

For instance, waiting on Sam at the library. That was a crap level of 2-3, normally. A cute librarian or decent diner nearby could easily drop it to a one.

Waiting for the baddie to show up? Usually a four-five, but the end was usually pretty rewarding, so Dean dealt with it.

A ten on the "Dean Winchester's Personal Scale of Worst Waiting Ever"?

Easy.

Waiting for your stupid ankle which you stupidly broke when you stupidly stepped into a STUPID SINKHOLE in a particularly STUPID, OVERGROWN CEMETARY to heal up.

While your kid brother waited tables to pay the weekly motel fee.

Easily the worst.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

It could have happened to either of them.

It seemed like the ghosts and ghouls and poltergeists always favored the old, uncared for cemeteries, the ones with broken gates and weeds and snakes and worn away, unreadable headstones.

And sinkholes.

It was an unfortunate fact of life that old, run down cemeteries were full of sinkholes, perfectly sized and shaped to break an unwary hunter's ankle.

It happened to all of them at one point or another.

John, Bobby, even Caleb.

Spend enough time in old cemeteries, and it was almost inevitable.

But it had never happened to Dean before.

At first, he tried denying that it was broken (it was, in fact, very much broken).

Then he tried insisting that they didn't need to have x-rays (he did need x-rays).

He tried insisting that he could wrap it himself (it didn't work).

He tried insisting that Sam could wrap it for him (Sam ignored him, loaded him into the Impala, and promptly drove him to the nearest emergency room.)

So now, four weeks later, Dean was stuck in the motel room, watching crap TV (naturally, no pay per view) alone.

Because Sammy didn't like using the fake cards, oh no.

Dean's darling, ethical, MORAL little brother had gone out and got himself a job.

Waiting tables.

At a diner.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean maneuvered his crutches carefully, placing each step with care. Sam had taken the car to work, but, fortunately for Dean, the diner was only a few blocks away.

The door posed a slight problem for him, but luckily a kind looking, older waitress with electric blue eye shadow opened the door for him.

"You must be Dean, Sam's brother." She clicked her tongue at him, shaking his head.

"Um...yeah." Dean said awkwardly, startled that she knew his name. He looked around for Sam, but the kid was no where to be seen.

"He around?" Dean asked cautiously.

"Sure honey, he just ran some take out around the block to Mrs. Henderson, she's taken a real shine to him." Greta, according to her name tag, ushered him over to a booth.

"You just sit right there and I'll get your food." She announced.

"I haven't ordered yet. And how did you know who I was?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Oh, Sam said you hurt your leg in a shop accident. Those auto shops are dangerous places, I tell you what, my nephew nearly lost a eye once when a piece of a tool broke off an flew at his face. Now he's got a big long scar..." The woman chatted on, glancing around the way a skilled waitress will, checking her tables while chatting like it was an Olympian sport.

"Anyhow, he said you were getting restless, said to expect you today or the next day. He left your order with the cook. You just sit a spell and I'll bring it out in just a few." She bustled off and Dean was left sitting in the booth feeling like he had just survived a small, level four tornado.

Dean tried his best to relax, and quickly enough Greta brought back his food.

"Cookie put a rush on it. Double bacon cheeseburger, fries, dill pickles on the side, black coffee, chocolate shake. Well, at least you eat like a man. I've spent the last week trying to fatten your brother up. A boy that size, eating salad like one of them supermodels. It's not right." She made a face, and Dean laughed.

"You tell it, sister. Been saying that for years." Dean mumbled, taking a bite of his cheeseburger.

It was good, really good, the patty just shy of well done, just the way Dean liked it.

"Whose Cookie?" He said suddenly.

"Oh, Cookie? He's our cook. Cookie's not his real name, of course, it's Charles or something, but he's been here longer than the linoleum. Everyone just calls him Cookie." Greta said, eyes scanning her tables again.

Dean glanced forward, looking through the open back counter, to see a rough, grizzled, older man who looked to be the furthest thing in the world from someone Dean would ever willingly refer to as "Cookie".

"Right." Dean said, trying not to smirk. "Any idea when Sam's due back?" He hadn't known Sam was running take out orders, that could get dangerous.

Granted, the town was as dull as dried mud, but that wasn't the point.

"Well, hon, here he comes now. Sam, darlin' your brother's shown up, just like you said!" Greta hollered in her two pack-a-day smokers voice.

Sam came in the door, breathless and smiling a little.

"Thanks Greta, you're a life saver." He said, smiling down at her, and Dean had to look away to keep from laughing as she did everything but pinch Sam's cheek.

"Don't worry your head over it, hon. You running those orders over to Mrs. Henderson every night saves my poor feet like you wouldn't believe." Greta smiled at him adoringly.

"Dean, you okay? Ankle hurting?" Sam asked, turning to his brother.

"Nah, it's fine. Just got stir crazy." Dean said, leaning back, replete after his very satisfying meal.

"Cool. You wanna wait here, my shift's only another two hours or so. Or you could take the car. If you walked this far, you could manage to drive a couple of blocks." Sam offered, searching his brother's face for any sign of pain.

Dean frowned. "Nah, man I'm cool. If you don't need the booth, I'll just people-watch. Beats the cable around here."

Greta laughed. "Ain't that the god's honest truth. Listen, Sam honey, the rush will only last about another hour then we'll be deader than a door nail. Help me through the rush and you can take off afterward."

"You sure?" Sam asked in concern, turning his puppy dog eyes on her. "I don't want you to have to close alone."

'Oh, sweet heart, don't you worry. Cookie's here and if he can't handle it, I'll just shoot the fuckers." She smiled sweetly and Dean nearly choked on his milkshake.

"Oh." Sam said with a perfectly straight face. "Well, thanks Greta. Want me to grab this five top coming in?" He said, nodding to the door.

"You got it, cupcake." She said with a smile, bustling off to refill the coffee cup of an older man at the counter.

Dean waved his brother off and settled in, watching Sam work.

If he were honest, he'd expecting Sam to get fired by day two, day three at the latest. T

he kid had been all kinds of clumsy growing up, breaking more dishes than Dean could count.

He should have taken Sam's little boy charm into account though. What Grandmother in the world could fire Sammy Winchester?

But as he watched Sam work, he realized something.

Sam was really good at his job. He took orders easily, keeping the separate requests straight no matter how convoluted the order. He called the orders out to Cookie like an old pro, and he balanced the heavy trays easily.

Dean supposed it wasn't too surprising.

Sam had grown up eating in diners, so knowing the lingo wasn't that strange. And Sam was scary smart, so maybe keeping the orders straight on the first try, every time was just par for the course for him.

And he'd obviously grown into his long arms and legs, his abilities as a hunter had proven that.

Still...

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean waited until they were home to question Sam.

They were relaxing in front of the TV, Sam eating a fried chicken salad while Dean munched on an order of onion rings the cook had thrown in their bag.

Trying to gauge his timing, Dean said casually, "So, you're pretty good at this whole waiting tables thing, especially since we've only been here, what, two weeks?"

Sam stiffened, just a little, but Dean wasn't Sam's big brother for nothing.

"Well, yeah. I guess it's just natural talent." Sam laughed awkwardly, and Dean marveled that his little brother, who could be heart-stoppingly convincing when he was undercover, still couldn't lie to Dean to save his life.

"Huh. It's weird, but if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd done it before. A lot." Dean said, watching Sam from the corner of his eye.

"Huh." Sam mumbled, standing up and moving to throw his salad container away.

"Sam." Dean said the word with a smile, unable to understand what was making his brother feel so awkward.

"It's nothing. I just waited on tables back at Stanford sometimes." Sam said, looking everywhere but at Dean.

Dean frowned, confused. "Dude, you had a full ride, right? Dorm, meal plan, books?"

"Um..." Sam rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Well, yeah. Yeah, I did, and it covered all that stuff. But there were still expenses."

Dean frowned. "Oh, like your laptop? They didn't provide that? You shoulda just called."

Sam shrugged. "Dad was pretty pissed off when I left. You didn't say much one way or another. Didn't seem right to ask for pin money."

"Jeez, kiddo. I would have got you a laptop." Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like thinking about those three and a half years Sam was away.

He also didn't like the look on Sam's face, or the fact that he wasn't making eye contact.

"Sam." This time his voice was terse, and Sam sighed.

"Dean, man, this is all old news, it's water under the bridge." Sam hedged and Dean slapped his hand down on the table.

"SAM!"

"Jeez, alright, alright already. Okay, yeah, I needed a computer. And clothes, shoes. School supplies, sheets, that kind of stuff. And I had to support myself during breaks when the dorm cafeteria's were closed." Sam said, still looking anywhere but at Dean.

Dean frowned. He'd never really thought about some of those things. Sam had said the words 'full ride' and in Dean's mind, it had sounded like the school would take care of those things.

"You mean, you didn't get an allowance or something?" Dean asked awkwardly.

"It doesn't really work that way, Dean. Sure, there were mattresses in the dorms, but we were expected to provide our own sheets and towels and stuff. It's not like a motel. Pencils, pens, bus fare, shoes. Those things were all on me. So I waited tables."

Dean scowled. If he'd had any idea, he would never have let Sam go off without provisions. Then Sam's other words caught up to him.

"What did you mean, the school's cafeteria's were closed on breaks." He demanded, not liking the implications.

Sam pressed his lips together, but finally relented at the look on Dean's face. "Like, holidays and stuff. Most kids went home, so they shut down the cafeterias. I could still sleep there, I was just responsible for feeding myself."

A pit of unease was growing in Dean's stomach. "What about Summer vacation?" He said.

Sam looked at him for a moment. "The first two years, I went to Bobby or Pastor Jim's or both. Wherever you and Dad weren't at the time. The last two years I qualified for the summer program, so I received a housing allowance year round. Jess's parents were pretty well to do, so they gave her housing money as long as she kept her grades up and we got the apartment. It was subsidized because it was on school property."

Dean shook his head. "That's four summers, man, but you left at the start of your fourth year."

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. "I found out about the scholarship in May, Dean. I only waited about two weeks before I told you and Dad. I didn't think it would go down the way it did. Freshman orientation wasn't until the end of August that year."

Dean stared at Sam, aghast. "Are you telling me you were homeless for two months?"

Sam shrugged. "Bobby took me in. I got a diner job there in Sioux Falls and started saving up. Had a laptop and sheets and stuff by the time fall rolled around. It wasn't like Bobby charged me rent."

Dean's eyes widened. "Is that why he and Dad got in that huge fight?"

Sam shifted guiltily. "I have never...confirmed that." He said carefully.

Dean pushed up, restless, his entire system swimming in guilt. "You should have called me." He said angrily to Sam.

"With what phone?" Sam snapped back, before his mouth slammed shut.

"What?" Dean said, turning back to his brother so fast he nearly fell over and Sam had to reach over and steady.

"My phone." Sam answered quietly. "You know how frequently Dad changed phone plans. You guys switched a few weeks later. I only found out because my phone didn't work."

"No. Dad always had a number for you." Dean argued.

"Yeah, a number where you guys could reach me, because after two weeks, I had enough extra cash to get my own." Sam responded, as if his words weren't tearing a small hole in Dean's universe.

Dean sat down heavily, his stomach swimming with nausea.

Sam was right, they had changed phone numbers frequently. He just assumed John had always kept Sam's line going until the school had gotten him a line of his own.

College was a murky, hazy idea to Dean. He knew how to fix an engine, shoot a gun, woo a woman. He had no idea what constituted a college scholarship, he'd only known that Sam was brilliant, so he'd gotten one.

"Aren't there loans and things, for college kids?" He asked, murky on that subject as well.

"No eighteen year old gets a loan without their parent as a co-signer." Sam shrugged again, and Dean shuddered at the thought of John Winchester signing loan paper work.

"Sam...I didn't know." He said lamely, the words feeling horribly inadequate. His head was swimming with images of a hungry, homeless eighteen year old Sam, and he suddenly needed a drink rather badly.

Seeming to read his brother's mind, Sam went over to the mini-fridge, tossing his brother a beer.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam said. "You and Dad taught me to be self-sufficient. I made do."

"Yeah." Dean mumbled.

But Sam shouldn't have had to.

Dean was far away enough now from that horrible night to know that whether or not John and Dean had wanted Sam to go, things shouldn't have gone down the way they had. Dean had been heartbroken and hurt, and when John had told Sam to go and stay gone, he hadn't said a word.

He'd felt rejected, and at the time, he almost hadn't wanted to see Sam.

That had changed quickly enough however, and now Dean realized just how badly he and John had wronged Sam.

It still hurt that Sam had wanted to leave, that their life hadn't been enough to make Sam happy, but that didn't excuse Dean from being Sam's big brother.

He let his kid walk out without blankets or food or money. Sam hadn't had a phone for two weeks because John had obviously been trying to force Sam into coming back.

John had probably known exactly how badly off Sam was starting, and he'd hoped it would force Sam to fold and give up on school.

Had Sam even realized that Dean hadn't known all these things? At some point he must have figured it out, because otherwise he wouldn't have tried to spare Dean's feelings tonight.

But four years ago, had he known that?

Or had he thought Dean simply didn't care if he was hungry or sleeping on a bare mattress?

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean spent the next few days haunted by his conversation with Sam. Self-recrimination made it hard to sleep at night.

Dean took care of Sam. That was how it worked. Dean made sure Sam was safe, that he was fed, that he had shoes on his feet and a jacket that fit.

But four years ago, Dean had screwed up. Sam had just been a kid, hell, eighteen was nothing in the scheme of things. He'd been a kid who'd wanted to go to school, and John and Dean had pretty much told him to hit the road because he hadn't wanted what they wanted.

Dean hadn't checked on Sam, not for nearly two years. He'd thought about him nearly every damn day, but his stubborn pride had kept him away, determined to make Sam break first.

Now he wondered if the reason Sam never had was because Sam hadn't realized that his older brother was an idiot who didn't understand how things like college scholarships and dorm life worked.

Dean was smart, but college had never mattered to him, had never featured in his plans, so he'd never bothered to learn how those things played out.

How many years had Sam spent worrying over whether or not he was gonna have food to eat at Christmas because he thought Dean didn't give a damn? Obviously, something Dean had said or done since they started hunting together had clued Sam in, but still.

When Dean had shown up that first night, in Palo Alto, at Sam and Jess's apartment, had those things been running through Sam's mind?

Dean now had a new respect for just how bad the apartment fire must have been for Sam, not just the shattering loss of Jess, but everything in that apartment, all those stupid little things Dean never thought twice about, like towels and sheets and dishes.

Sam had built that life from scratch, along with Jess, without any help from John or Dean, and he lost it all in one fell swoop, because even after John and Dean turned their backs on him, he agreed to help Dean.

These thoughts and more ran though Dean's mind constantly, until he wanted to scream and break things.

He knew that Sam knew, but Sam never said another word, probably hoping Dean would follow standard Winchester code and completely ignore anything painful, awkward or emotional.

The code wasn't helping Dean this time. Nothing in the Code forgave complete and utter Big Brother Failure of Epic Proportions.

So he made a plan.

It didn't fix things, could never fix things, because life didn't work that way. You didn't get second chances.

But you could always move forward.

He started with Sam's boots and shoes. They weren't too old yet, Dean had bought Sam new after the fire that killed Jess, but that was okay.

He used his poker money to buy Sam a new pair anyway, the good kind, with thick, rubber soles that would grip even in the rain. The kind that had thick laces that held a knot and wouldn't come undone and trip your sorry ass right in the middle of chasing after a black dog.

A few days later, he moved on to socks. Sam had a couple pairs, but he'd picked out the cheap kind for himself, probably worried about money. Dean knew of at least two occasions he'd caught Sam bandaging blisters.

So the cheap socks had to go.

A week later, Sam came home at lunch to find Dean reading the inside label of a pair of his jeans.

"You know those are practically new, right?" He asked.

Dean shrugged. "Good info to know. I might see some on sale. Christ knows we tear the knees out of ours often enough."

Sam made a mild bitch face, but he didn't say anything else.

He also managed to refrain from commented when Dean bought a new blanket to keep in the Impala, just in case of emergencies.

Emergencies happened often enough in there lives, after all.

But the icing on the cake was the phone. It was expensive and the year long plan he'd pre-purchased was even more so, but to Dean it was priceless.

He was damned if another day was ever going to go by without Sam having a way to call him, and he wanted Sam to know it too.

Sam could run away in the middle of the night and move to a nudist colony in Berlin, and that phone would still work.

"Dean." Sam protested when Dean gave it to him. "You realize how crappy a deal a pre-purchased plan like this is, right?"

Dean shrugged. "I asked about five-year plans, but the don't have them."

Sam's eyes bugged out. "That's cause it would be crazy to buy one. Do I even want to know how much you spent."

"No." Dean said decisively.

"You gotta take it back." Sam argued.

"Never gonna happen, Sammy." Dean said dismissively.

"Dean." Sam said, running his hands through his hair. "I know what this is about, dude. That's why I never wanted to talk about it. You didn't know, man. And I was fine, I am fine. Stop spending money we don't have on things we don't need."

"We do need it, Sam. You need it, and I need to know you have it. No matter what, you can always call for help. No one's gonna get mad at you and cancel it, there aren't any conditions. It's yours, and when the year is up, I'll get you another one, whether you're with me or living in the freakin' Hamptons!" Dean responded hotly.

"Dean." Sam said the words slowly, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "You didn't know."

Dean threw his crutch into the wall. "It was my damned job to know, Sam. I always opted out of the politics between you and Dad, because I cared more about the you and him than the stupid power struggle. But you hurt my feelings, so instead of doing my job, I left you vulnerable. And I'm not doing it again. Taking care of you? That was my job, it was always my job. And it was never about whether or not you were grateful or whether you did what I wanted. That's not how it works. Taking care of you is my job, and I screwed it up. I'm not doing it again, so take the goddamned phone and put it in your goddamned pocket, and go to goddamned work already!"

Sam was silent for a moment, and then he grabbed up his jacket (and the phone) and headed out the door.

A few hours later, Dean's phone beeped as a text came through. He recognized Sam's new number.

"_jerk."_

Dean laughed a little before typing his reply.

"_bitch."_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Okay, yet another round of apologies. My mom had a heart attack, and now she is set up for triple bypass surgery in a few days. She's actually doing really well right now, considering, so I am getting some writing done, just a little slower than normal. Normally, if I was going to post a chapter of "How To Fix A Winchester" I aim for Friday morning, but I'm guessing you will all forgive me.**

**I got lots of exciting prompts! Yay. Okay, this is my response to Wholocked221's prompt "a creature kidnapping Sam, and Dean rescuing, with awesome Bobby optional". **

**So, Wholocked221, thanks so much for your review and time, and I hope you like your chapter. The Selkie storyline just sort of came to me, I hope everyone has fun reading.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**How to Fix a Winchester -Chapter Seven**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Picnics"**

Selkies.

In the movies, Selkies are romantic.

Scottish mermaids, with the bodies of seals when at home in the ocean, and possessing the bodies of beautiful, nubile young women when on dry land. The coastline is full of quaint, charming legends of lonely fishermen catching a Selkie, making her his wife by hiding her sealskin, landlocking the young woman for the rest of her life, unless she managed to find her skin.

Romantic, right ( in a Stockholm syndrome kinda way)?

The reality?

Not quite so romantic.

Also, not just Scotland.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Harper's Ferry, Maine, was a small fishing town, a village really.

Nothing more exciting than the reading of old Lady Kennebec's will had happened in the last forty years. Everyone in Harper's Ferry knew everyone else (and their business).

So you can only imagine the uproar when three of the town's most eligible bachelors went missing.

One at a time, stolen away from the docks, their boats, and in one case, the beach itself. Jonas Gentry's girlfriend Liza Beth, swore she'd only ran back to her car for cooler for their picnic lunch, but when she returned, Jonas had vanished.

And one by one, the sea returned the young men back to the little town of Harper's Ferry.

Though they weren't exactly in the same condition as when they were taken.

That would have been a little bit difficult, seeing as they were dead.

Each man's body was found, skinned, and floating near the shoreline, a macabre find for they leery fisherman simply looking for the catch of the day.

Each man taken alive, and returned...well, not so much.

Exactly three days later.

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Sam awoke with a groan, clutching his pounding head.

The room, if you could call it that, was dark and damp, and the floor, when he ran his hand across it disorientedly, appeared to be...stone?

Okay.

Not a room at all then. A cave or a cavern, near the sea, by Sam's guess. The floor and walls were clammy, and he could smell salt and seaweed.

That would mean the roaring sound he heard was the surf, and not his head, which would be a truly excellent starting point.

If Sam had had any idea where he was, why he was there, or how exactly he had come to be there at all.

Feeling his face, his fingers encountered a tacky, stiffened substance that experience told him was blood.

Moving his arms and legs, everything else appeared to be in working order, though the chain on his ankle was less than promising.

Also, he couldn't remember for certain, but he doubted that when this little adventure had started, he had been shirtless, sans shoes and socks as well.

He was also missing his knife, his lock pick, his second knife, and his phone.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

"Damn it, Bobby, where the hell are you? You should be here by now!" Dean growled anxiously, pacing back and forth in the confines of the small motel room.

"I'm less than an hour out, now!" Bobby snapped in a worried growl of his own.

"Now, calm the hell down and tell me what happened again, from the beginning, slowly."

"We don't have time for this, Bobby. Sam disappeared twelve hours ago. Those guys showed up three days later, and the coroner said the fact that they were skinned was just icing on the cake. They were drowned first, some of them several hours before this freak filleted them."

"Start at the beginning!" Bobby ordered again, and this time, Dean obeyed.

"We were down at the docks..." He began.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam remembered what happened, now.

Well, sort of.

The part where he woke up chained, half naked in a cave by the sea was still a little disconcerting, but at least he remembered the basics.

He and Dean had picked up a case as a favor to Bobby.

A friend of a friend had retired to Harper's Ferry years back, and her nephew, Jonas, had been found, skinned and floating among the rocky shoreline a few miles outside of town. As Jonas was the third victim, Bobby had agreed to look into the case, but then Rufus had needed help from someone who spoke Greek, so Sam and Dean had agreed to hit the town for Bobby in the meantime.

Dean had been of the opinion that is was most likely a simple human serial killer (only Dean could class a human being who voluntarily murdered other human beings in large numbers as simple).

Sam hadn't been so sure, however.

The deaths had a ritualistic feel to them. Also, the three young men had all been in excellent physical condition, which, though not making it impossible for a human to be the culprit, certainly made it less likely.

There was no sign of struggling at any of the crime scenes, and no one had heard anything either.

He and Dean had gotten into town two days ago (though he supposed his sense of time left something to be desired at this point, thanks to his head injury) and they had started interviewing witnesses.

Sam had been thinking along the lines of some kind of merfolk or siren, which would explain the lack of struggle. They'd had trouble finding any concrete evidence, however, so they had decided to try and interview some of the older fishermen again.

Harper's Ferry's oldest generation of sailors were a surly bunch, and he and Dean had been forced to move their interrogation into the local bar in hopes that the whiskey would loosen up tongues.

Finally, one man, Walter, had seemed to take a shine to Dean.

Hoping to encourage the two men to talk, Sam had stepped outside of the bar.

That was when he'd heard the cry for help.

It was the oldest trick in the book and every hunter knew it, but as a feint, it remained devastatingly effective, because no hunter, no matter how seasoned, would knowingly ignore a cry for help.

Sam Winchester was no exception.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"And when I came out of the bar, Sam was just gone. I found his cell phone on the ground in about seven pieces out toward the far end of the dock, but that was about it."

There was a pause as Bobby digested the information Dean had relayed.

"What about the legend that old fisherman told you, that Walter guy?" He asked after a moment.

"He said the local legend was that old man Harper used to run a ferry between the docks here and Seala island. One day he came back from the island with a wife, real pretty. Said she grew up on the island, but none of the local island families would claim her. Right after his first son was born, he came in to a bunch of money, used it to found the town."

Seala, huh. That's Irish for seal. " Bobby said musingly.

"Seal? What does that have to do with anything?" Dean asked distracted.

"I don't know for sure yet, but I'll be there soon."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam was freezing. He wasn't sure how long he'd been...wherever he was.

It was fairly secluded, that was certain. Sam had tried yelling for a few hours, but he'd finally stopped when his voice had gone out.

He'd also tried escaping the chain on his ankle, but despite it's age and the rust that coated it, it held fast.

After what seemed like an interminable time, he heard the soft shuffle of light footsteps on the sand. He blinked in surprise when his captor came into view.

"You?"

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"It's a what?" Dean said incredulously.

"A Selkie." Bobby repeatedly patiently.

"You mean, one of those seal/girl things, right? They kill people?" Dean asked.

"Normally, no. Selkies are very passive. It's the human factor that makes them unstable. Legend has it that all Selkies are female. Once a Selkie has been captured, her husband would bury her sealskin somewhere she'd never find it, to prevent her from returning to the ocean." Bobby said.

"Why wouldn't he just burn it?" Dean queried.

"Burying a Selkie's sealskin on your property reportedly brings good fortune." Bobby explained.

"The story fits." Bobby confirmed. " Harper's children and his grandchildren and his great grandchildren were all boys, so the Selkie gene would have passed them over. Only girls carry the gene, but if the Selkie was born on dry land she would have to perform a ritual in order to create a skin for herself."

"Let me guess. Does this ritual involve human skins?" Dean asked in dread.

"You got it. One skin for every generation away from the sea." Bobby confirmed grimly.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"Liza Beth?" Sam asked, caught completely off guard.

"Actually, it's Elizabeth, not that any of the yokels around here ever get it right." The girl said. She was beautiful, with long hair and longer legs.

Suddenly, something clicked in Sam's weary brain. Through chattering teeth, he muttered.

"Seala...Seal. You're a..." He coughed. "A..selkie." He'd curled up as best he could to conserve his body heat, but it had been hours at this point, making it a soon to be lost battle.

"Aren't you a clever one. For a man." She added as an after thought. "But you only got it partially right. My great-great grandmother was a Selkie. Harper captured her and buried her skin. She was trapped on dry land for the rest of her life. That would have been the end of it, but I came along."

Sam shook his head, wondering if his hypothermia was making it hard to follow along with her reasoning.

"Do you know what it's like, being trapped in this body? This isn't who I am, it's not who I'm supposed to be. I can hear the sea, in my head, like my pulse, all the time, no matter what I'm doing, where I am. I spent years looking for a ritual that would let me return. And I finally found one." She said, eyes alight with a maniacal gleam.

"Sk..kins" Sam guessed.

"You guessed it. One for every generation between me and the sea. You'll be the last. Four skins, taken from the land the way my grandmother's sisters have been stolen from the sea for centuries. Once I finished with you, I can return to my true home."

"Dean's coming for me." Sam said without the slightest hesitation.

She arched one graceful brow. "Then you better hope he gets here faster than the tide."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"But are there still any Harper's around?" Dean asked, looking frantically at his watch.

Something in his gut told him they were running out of time.

"Just one." Bobby said, glancing down at his notes. "Elizabeth Harper, aged twenty-two."

"Liza Beth." Dean said grimly as the puzzle pieces started sliding into place.

"She inherited the old Harper property two years ago when her father died." Bobby confirmed.

"How do you kill a Selkie?" Dean asked darkly, and Bobby shuddered, reminding himself once again to never come between Dean Winchester and his little brother.

"Fire or Silver." Bobby stated.

Dean cocked his gun, looking up at his surrogate father. "Bullets work?"

Bobby tilted his head. "One way to find out."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Cold.

Sam was cold. And dark.

Or it was dark. Sam was cold.

He wasn't sure anymore. The water had risen to his chest already, the cold sapping his strength as well as his ability to think clearly.

From a far away distance, he heard what sounded like struggle followed by several gunshots, but his mind was full of things...pictures, memories.

A carousel on the boardwalk in Jersey Dean had taken him to when he was seven or eight.

The soccer team Bobby signed him up for when he stayed with him the fall he was twelve.

The first time he ever saw Jess, standing in English Lit. 101, the afternoon sun lighting up her hair like gold rain.

"Sam! Sammy! SAM! Answer me, Sam?" The voice was familiar, but Sam was sleepy.

Surely he could sleep a few more minutes...

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean sat at the edge of Sam's bed in their dimly lit hotel.

Sam had been in and out of consciousness for the past two days. Really, he needed a hospital, but Bobby had advised against it. The iron manacle had left a distinctive mark on Sam's ankle, and Dean had been forced to kill Elizabeth Harper (and gee, wasn't he crying inside over it.)

Unfortunately, since Liza Beth had never finished her ritual, the police would find what looked like a completely human body when they discovered her, meaning Bobby and the Winchester brothers had to hightail it out of there.

"Key..." Sam muttered. "Need...It's a Selkie."

"I know, kiddo. You did good, you figured it out." Dean murmured soothingly.

Sam had been unconscious and more than half dead when Dean had discovered him, chained in a low lying cavern on the shoreline of the old Harper property. The tide had risen to Sam's chin by the time Dean had retrieved the key from around Liza Beth's neck.

Once Dean had gotten Sam away from the immediate threat of the tide, he'd been able to triage Sam's other injuries.

The head wound was troubling, but not desperately so. The hypothermia was also remedied relatively quickly.

But almost immediately, the pneumonia set in.

Sam had been chained up, under dressed in the cold and wet for several hours, and his immune system was pretty much tanked by the time Dean had gotten him out.

Dean now found himself fighting one final enemy.

Illness.

Bobby procured IV's with saline and antibiotics from somewhere, though Dean wouldn't let anyone but himself touch Sam. His big brother instincts were on high alert, and he frankly reminded Bobby of a mother bear who's cub had been injured.

It was Dean who monitored Sam's fever, and managed his medicine. It was Dean who wiped Sam's forehead, and supported his head so he could drink water whenever he had the strength.

Sam usually lacked the energy to even open his eyes, but that didn't stop his brother. Dean did whatever Sam needed, seeming to sense it even before Sam understood it. He talked continually, a flowing river of words that soothed Sam's fevered ramblings.

Once or twice, Bobby thought he heard Dean singing softly, but if the words to "Hey, Jude" passed Dean's lips, well, that was between the boys.

Finally, after eight days, Sam turned a corner for the better.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"Has he slept at all?" Sam's weary voice startled Bobby, and he looked up from his book.

"Hey, Sam! Good to actually see your eyes open." Bobby said, closing his book and standing to walk over quietly.

"Don't wake him." Sam ordered, careful not to shift his leg from where Dean's head was laying on it.

"His neck's gonna kill him in the morning." Bobby warned.

Sam shrugged tiredly, eyes already fluttering closed again. "Not like he'd sleep anywhere else right now. Don't tell him we talked. He'll want to...talk...me...first."

"You got it, kid." Bobby said affectionately, draping a blanket over the oldest Winchester's shoulders.

"Mum's the word."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Alright, next chapter of How to Fix a Winchester. Another prompt based story, set season eight, after Southern Comfort, before the trials. The boys needed to clear the air.**

**So, this story is based off of the prompt I received from Chillywinterbreeze, who wanted to see Dean have a breakdown and Sam take care of him. So, here's some vulnerable Dean for you!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Eight**

**The Unfortunate Thing About Baseball**

It was such a stupid thing. It was just a baseball that had rolled to far edge of the Impala's trunk, hidden away, lost from sight for years.

Just a ball, larger than an orange and smaller than a grapefruit, and white and red, with smudged, dirty fingerprints circling it's circumference.

An absolutely ordinary baseball that had once belonged to a little boy who had once belonged to Dean Winchester for a little over a year.

It wasn't just a baseball.

It was Ben's baseball.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"Dean!" Sam called as he entered the Bunker's kitchen from the garage, a bag of groceries in his arms.

He'd tried calling Dean's cell from the store, about something stupid that he couldn't even remember now, but that wasn't the point.

The point was, Dean hadn't answered.

They always answered their phones, at least for each other. There was simply no other way to survive their kind of lifestyle.

You couldn't risk being off your game at a crucial moment because you were worried over your brother not answering his mobile.

Therefore, unanswered phone = brother in trouble, come immediately.

"DEAN!" Sam called again, worry mounting.

He dropped the bag carelessly on the table and moved quickly down the hall, checking Dean's room, the showers and the hunting range.

Dean wasn't in the garage, Sam would have known when he returned home. He wasn't in the kitchen, the pantry, the main foyer or the two storage rooms they used most frequently. He wasn't in the gym, or the room that counted as the main living area either, and by the time Sam finally located him in the darkened library, Sam was nearly frantic.

"Jesus, Dean, why didn't you answer?" Sam said as he squinted to see his brother more clearly in the dim room.

Dean was sitting on the floor between two shelves, back against the wall and as Sam got closer he could smell the strong scent of even stronger whiskey.

Oh.

Okay, that explained...well, not really anything, but now at least Sam had a basic idea of what he was doing.

Dean drinking alone in the dark meant he was seriously upset, like when John had died, or when the nightmares after Sam had been killed at Cold Oak got a little too frisky.

He had some distant memories of Dean doing this a few times after he'd rejoined Sam, but his soulless self had taken little note of his brother's emotional needs, and re-souled Sam had usually had Lucifer singing in his ear, which probably hadn't been much better, as far as Dean getting what he'd needed from Sam emotionally.

"Hey." He said softly, remaining silent after that as he settled cross legged beside his brother.

He steadfastly ignored the tear tracks on his brother's face, knowing if he pushed the wrong way, Dean would clamp down emotionally tighter than Fort Knox. Whatever had triggered this, it was bad, because Sam's tough as nails older brother didn't just break down for the hell of it.

No.

If Dean was breaking down over something, than Sam had no doubt it was worth crying over.

So he sat silently, for the better part of an hour, as Dean took large swigs out of the bottle and silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

Sam ignored his aching back, ignored the groceries spoiling on the kitchen table, ignored his feet as they tingled and then went numb.

He sat there through it all and waited.

Occasionally, Dean would offer Sam the bottle, and Sam would drink obediently, careful to take much smaller swallows than his brother, but nonetheless, he drank it when it was offered.

It was part of the ritual, as Dean acclimated to Sam's presence, resigned himself to the idea of letting the words beating against his lips spill forth, to lance the wound and let the poison out.

Another hour passed and the brothers simply sat in the dark, and neither spoke.

Finally though, Dean held out his hand mutely and Sam obediently took the round object from him.

It was, of all things, a baseball, and Sam's quicksilver mind starting sorting through all the potential meanings this particular ball could have, because with Dean, nothing was straight forward, no.

This ball meant something.

His mind stilled when he suddenly recalled seeing a picture, years ago, in Dean and Lisa's house, of a smiling boy in a baseball uniform.

Oh.

Shit.

"I'm sorry." He murmured quietly, as he wondered, for the millionth time if he could ever make up for all the damage he had done his brother when he came back into his life.

"It's not your fault." Dean said in a rough voice.

"You had a life, Dean. You were happy, you were out, and I dragged you back." Sam said in remorse, a bone deep shame that he carried with him all the time.

Dean shook his head. "It's more than that, Sam. I got over Lisa and Ben, mostly, years ago. I'm a hunter, always have been. I felt like an actor playing a part when I was with them."

"Then what?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

"It's just...everything. Every minute of that was wonderful, but it hurt, too, Sam. It hurt so goddamn much. Because they should have been enough, but they weren't. They was this screaming hole where you should have been, and you weren't because I let you jump. It was my job to protect you, and I let you jump into Hell." Dean gasped the words, like he couldn't get in a deep breath.

"Hey, hey, Dean, it's okay, I'm out, it's okay." Sam soothed.

Dean laughed bitterly. "Okay? It's not okay. I know the truth, Sam. You saved the world, you did it, and you did it for me. You did it to save me, and I never even believed in you. You believed in me, but I didn't believe in you. And Ben and Lisa, they believed in me, but there was this part of me that was always waiting, always just waiting for something. A part of me never believed my life with them was real. Then you came back, and I don't even know why you wanted me with you, cause you sure as hell didn't care."

Sam swallowed, pushing down his emotions as he chose his words with care. "I came back for you for because things were better with you."

"How'd you figure?" Dean muttered.

Sam shifted. He didn't like talking about his soulless self, avoided it vehemently, in fact, but he supposed he had no choice.

"I didn't really have any...guidance when I returned. I hunted because that was what I was good at, and the hunt appealed to me. But I knew right away that something in me was wrong, was...broken. I remembered things from before, remembered feeling certain ways, but I couldn't feel anything anymore, so that's all they were, memories. I remembered wanting, I mean, really wanting you to have a good life with Lisa and Ben. I couldn't understand why I had wanted it, but I knew it had, so I left you there. It felt off, though. Hunting on my own. Like something was missing. That's why I joined Samuel's group. He was family, and I reasoned that if hunting with you was right because you were family, then the same logic applied. You told me family was good, was important, and even though I couldn't feel it anymore, I remembered you saying it. I remembered trusting you. But hunting with them wasn't right, even I could tell that. I couldn't understand it, but I could recognize it. That's why I asked you to come back. You were always right, about everything. I figured you would see what I couldn't." Sam finished quietly, uncomfortable with the intense stare Dean was leveling at him.

"Jesus, Sammy." Dean whispered brokenly. "And then I found out and I beat the living hell out of you."

Sam shrugged again. "I deserved it."

Dean shook his head. "No. No, you didn't. You were asking for help in your own way, I just couldn't see it. You couldn't feel fear, couldn't feel pain. You had no reason to let me back in, but you did and I rejected you, because a part of you was missing."

Sam shook his head. "I was a monster, Dean. I'm lucky you or Bobby didn't shoot me."

"Shoot you?" Dean's eyes widened. "Try you were lucky I'd let you out of the room without me. Every moment I thought you were dead, every moment you were trapped in hell, a part of me felt like killing myself just so I could be closer."

Sam closed his eyes, incredibly thankful for the woman and boy who had cared for his brother when he hadn't been able to.

"We all paid a price, Dean. But it's over now." He said softly.

"It's stupid, right?" Dean said, taking another drink. "Crying in the dark like a girl over a baseball?"

"You're not crying over a ball. You're crying because they mattered, Lisa and Ben mattered, and I mattered, and in one way or another, you lost all of us, and that matters. You're crying because when things matter, they're worth crying over." Sam said.

"Jesus, you're such a chick." Dean muttered, and Sam laughed. Dean passed him the bottle, and this time Sam took a larger drink.

If they were going to get hammered in honor of things that mattered, he might as well do it right.

"Bitch." Dean muttered.

Sam laughed again.

"Jerk."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Yay! The next chapter of How To Fix A Winchester, and another prompt done! This one is for Sylvia37, who wanted to see a season five hunt with Dean, Bobby and a wounded Sam saving the day!**

**I hope you like it!**

**Reviews are love!**

**Feel free to prompt, I work my prompts in order. I have two or three more to go at this point, and I am really enjoying the challenge. Just remember, no smut, no bashing.**

**As Always,**

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Nine**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Hiking"**

Sam trudged wearily behind Dean and Bobby as the men made their way up the mountain. Normally, a Black Dog hunt wouldn't be a three-man job, but according to Bobby, this had been no ordinary Black Dog sighting.

This was a pack of Black Dogs.

Bobby claimed he had never heard of anything like it. Black Dogs were normally solitary predators, but these days, all the things that went bump in the night seemed to be bumping a little harder, now that Lucifer had risen.

Thanks to Sam.

Sam winced as a brush snapped back in his face as Dean passed, nearly hitting him in the eyes, and he sighed, letting the distance grow between him and Dean. Things were still beyond strained between the brothers.

Perhaps _glacial _was the better word.

Things had started to look up after they had taken on the forest god back in the wax museum, but the Winchester's tour of Heaven had pretty much destroyed whatever they had managed to start building back between them.

"Sam, move your ass!" Dean said harshly as the last of the daylight faded away.

Sam gritted his teeth against the angry, dispirited words that wanted to burst free of his chest.

He was exhausted, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the whole night through without Lucifer whispering in his ear. He had started to get a handle on tuning him out, at least a little, but then the Heaven thing had happened, which led to Dean's amulet being thrown away-

Sam slammed a lid on his thoughts at that point, refusing to dwell in those awful moments again when he should be focusing on the hunt.

He stumbled a little, and looking down, he saw his laces had come undone. He knelt swiftly to redo the knots.

"SAM!" Dean called again, and Sam closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm himself as he heard Dean and Bobby moving further up the trail.

Had he already been up and moving again, he probably never would have heard it. But he was still kneeling, motionless as he strained to listen, senses suddenly on red alert.

There.

A low, alive sound, like harsh, guttural breathing...

Or a growl.

"Shit." Sam mouthed the word silently to himself as he reached for his gun.

Black Dogs were easy to put out of commission temporarily, silver bullets would do the trick, but to truly kill them, once they were down, a silver spike had to be driven into their heart, a gruesome task that seemed to have been the start of many of both the werewolf and vampire legends so prominent in the mainstream media.

"Dean!" He stage whispered as loudly as he dared, not wanting to startle the creature into attacking before he'd pinpointed it's actual location.

"Dean!" Sam said again, searching for the tell-tale red eyes that were often a hunter's only warning of a Black Dog's location.

Finally, off to his right, he sighted a pair of eyes, maybe six feet ahead, in the deep shadows.

Then he saw a second pair of eyes to his left.

"DEAN!" He called as the first pair of eyes rapidly closed the distance, just as the sun's fading rays sank beneath the mountains in the distance.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

"SAM!" Dean called, turning on a dime to barrel back down the trail as the echoes of two gunshots faded away into the night.

"Dean!" Bobby called out warningly, but Dean paid no heed.

Dammit, how far behind had that kid managed to get in the two minutes Dean had taken his eyes off him?

He stumbled into a clearing, torn shrubbery and broken branches strewn about everywhere. A dark substance matted the grass, already drying in the humid night air, and Dean knelt, touching it with two careful fingers, bringing it up to his nose.

Human.

"Shit!" Dean cursed, standing up, cupping his hands around his mouth to pitch his voice farther down the trail.

"SAMMY" He called again, not caring if he brought the whole damn pack down on them.

Where was Sam?

"Dean." Bobby said, pointing to another dark splash against the bark of one of the trees. This patch was steaming slightly.

Black Dog, then.

Sam had wounded at least one of them.

"SAMMY! ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!" He hollered, becoming more and more alarmed by the moment. He had only heard two gunshots, so unless Sam had gotten damn lucky, they had at least one angry, wounded Black Dog on the loose.

And no little brother.

"SAM!" Dean called, getting ready to fire his gun once in the air.

It was a foolish move, John was probably about to start cussing him out from Heaven, it would draw every nightmare in a five mile radius straight to them but as long as Sam came too, Dean would risk it.

Bobby stopped him at the last minute, though.

"Dammit, Dean, ya idjit, will ya stop and listen for a moment?" Bobby hissed lowly.

Dean scowled at him wordlessly, but he stilled nonetheless, listening to the deep quiet.

The really, deep _quiet_.

Dean sucked in a breath, eyes widening as they flew over to Bobby, who nodded in acknowledgment.

There was no rustling of small animals, no crickets, no cicadas.

Just absolute quiet.

"Fuck me..." Dean muttered as the first Black Dog stalked out of the underbrush, quickly followed by four more.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

Sam had gotten damn lucky, if you could call it that.

His first shot had plugged the attacking black dog squarely in the forehead, and it had tumbled back in surprise, falling into a ravine that Sam hadn't even realized ran parallel to the trail there, it was so well camouflaged by the shrubbery and the darkness.

The second shot went wide, however, and Sam screamed out a breathless gasp of pain even as he reached into his jacket for one of the three silver spikes he had. Each of the men had some, Bobby had had ten ready on hand when the sighting came across the hunter grapevine, and Sam and Bobby had each taken three and Dean (of course) had taken the last four.

His first strike missed the monsters heart, and he overbalanced under the weight of the creature. With a feeling on panic, he realized he was falling too far to simply had fallen over.

He was falling over into the same ravine the first black dog have.

The dog tightened it's jaws on Sam's shoulder, and black stars began to dance in front of his eyes as he did his best to position the spike against the monster's heart, and hoped gravity would do the rest.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he first woke up. A heavy, stinking, steaming weight was nearly smothering him, and as he went to push it off, his shoulder burst into flames of agony.

"God.." he choked out, bracing himself and shoving again despite the pain.

He could barely breath under the weight of what he realized was the second black dog.

His plan had worked (if you could call a rather desperate, last minute Hail Mary pass a plan) and the Dog's own weight had impaled it on Sam's spike when he hit the bottom of the ravine. They had landed on some bushes, and while Sam was fairly sure he now had splinters in some unfortunate places, he'd managed to avoid serious injury.

Other than the bleeding, screaming mess that was his shoulder.

Checking to make sure that the black dog was well and truly dead, he slowly stood up.

His pack was nowhere to be found, perhaps it was still at the top of the ravine. He needed it, though, there were some bandages he could use to stem the bleeding so as to be at least semi-functional until he found his brother and Bobby.

All the thoughts in his mind came to a screeching halt as he realized Dean was nowhere to be seen.

Dean had only be a few dozen yards up the trail, max. Sam couldn't see him, but more than that, he couldn't hear him. Checking his watch, he tried to guess what time it would have been when he was attacked.

He finally guesstimated that he must have been unconscious for at least forty-five minutes, which would explain why the wounds on his shoulder had already started to stiffen, the blood tacky as it started to clot slowly.

Luckily, it seemed to be mostly a flesh wound, Sam had a habit of dressing in layers, and this was one of the reasons. His two shirts and jacket had helped shield him, only a small degree, true, but considering Sam was about to scale back up the eight foot ravine he had fallen into, he'd take any help he could get.

But first things first.

Taking a second to be glad the dog had mauled his left shoulder and not his right, he drew out a second silver spike. He picked up his gun from a few feet away, holstering it at the small of his back. Then he walked over to the body of the first Black Dog. The bullet hole was already starting to heal, the dog's legs starting to twitch as it began to reanimate.

Using his leg, Sam shoved the dog's body over onto it's side, exposing it's ribcage.

Bracing himself for the pain the movement would bring his bad shoulder, even though he was using his other hand, Sam brought the silver spike down.

Hard.

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Dean groaned and rubbed his eyes, then the back of his head as he waited for the darkness to clear from his sight.

When it didn't, he knew he was in trouble.

His exploring hand found a tender knot on the back of his skull and he winced in the darkness as his fingers probed the wound. He didn't feel any blood, which was a good thing, he supposed.

Would be awful nice to be able to see, though.

"Dean, that better be you, ya idjit." Bobby's rough voice floated through the darkness, and Dean turned towards the sound as he reached into his pocket for his Zippo.

Flicking it open, he used the meager light to examine his surroundings, then wished he hadn't.

It reminded Dean a little of the lair of the Wendigo he and Sam had hunted all those years ago in Colorado. Back packs and other gear were strewn about, most shredded almost beyond recognition, along with shoes and binoculars and walking sticks.

And bones.

"So..." He said, turning to face where Bobby leaned against the wall of the cave they had somehow ended up in, "Evil lair?"

Bobby snorted, then grimaced, holding his shoulder. "What gave it away, Einstein."

"Shoulder?" Dean asked, coming over to the older man.

"Dislocated. Hurts like a sonovabitch." Bobby grumbled.

"On three?" Dean offered, as he handed Bobby the light to hold in his good hand as he took up position at the man's bad side, ready to force his shoulder back into place.

"Just do it, I ain't no little girl!" Bobby snarled, and despite the severity of the situation, Dean smiled.

With a practiced movement, he pushed Bobby's shoulder back into place with an audible pop. The older man dropped the lighter in his pain, but Dean had been expecting that, and his hand shot out even as they lost the light.

"Balls!" Bobby cursed.

"Do you remember what happened?" Dean asked as his fingers spun the wheel and light returned.

"Ya mean, do I remember the pack of Black Dog's tossing us around like chew toys before carrying us off up the mountain to this bloody cave an hour ago? Ya, it's pretty much seared into my brain." Bobby said sarcastically.

Dean's grin faded. "What about Sam?" He asked.

Bobby shook his head. "No sign of him. Best I can reckon, he's still out on the mountain."

Or he's already dead, Dean's mind voiced the thought silently, but Dean pushed it away.

Sam had to be okay.

"Have you tried getting out?" Dean asked Bobby.

Bobby shook his head. "In the dark, I was just as likely to fall off a cliff. And anytime I made too much noise, red eyes would appear. I reckoned I'd better just stay quiet until you were back in commission."

"So they're in the cave with us?" Dean asked as he reached for a silver spike. He frowned when his fingers only encountered two instead of four.

He cursed quietly. "Bobby, you still have your spikes?"

Bobby made a face. "Just one. Used one back in the clearing, and the other was knocked out of my hand right after. From the way they were dragging us, I'd guess your other two fell off on the ride."

Dean frowned. "Okay. So, two spikes, and at least three or four dogs?"

"At least." Bobby agreed. He leaned down and picked up what appeared to be a hand carved walking stick.

"Pity, it's well made." Bobby remarked as he picked up a torn sweater from the ground. Wrapping the material around the broken end of the walking stick, he fashioned it into a crude torch.

Dean picked up a broken camping lantern near his feet. It was broken beyond use, but some of the oil was still inside, and Bobby held the torch out to Dean as he poured the remaining oil over the sweater. Holding his lighter to it unto it blazed to light, he reached into his jacket and handed Bobby one of the two remaining spikes. Taking the other in one hand and his gun in the other, he nodded.

"Let's go find Sam."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam studied the cave from the position he chosen, carefully upwind from the creatures. One was pacing back and forth, and he had seen three others head inside only a few moments before.

He counted again grimly in his head. He had half a clip of silver bullets left, his back up clip had been missing from his ravaged pack when he'd regained the top of the ravine.

He had one of his original three silver spikes left, and another he'd found in the clearing, next to Bobby's gun. He'd followed the trail from there, no blood, thankfully, but from their tracks, the creatures had obviously been carrying loads, and Sam could only hope that meant Dean and Bobby. He'd never heard of Black Dog's carrying off their victims before, but he'd never heard of a pack of Black Dogs, either.

His shoulder still throbbed insistently, and Sam could feel fresh blood trickling down his shoulder under the gauze he'd haphazardly wrapped around himself.

The climb out of the ravine had been far from pleasant, and if Sam were being honest with himself, he'd have to admit he felt more than a little unsteady on his feet. He also felt the tell tale signs of a fever coming on, which meant he needed to move fast.

Black Dog bites were known to fester, and the last time he'd been bitten by one, back when he had first started hunting with John and Dean, John had loaded Sam up with a cocktail of antibiotics so powerful he'd finally started to break out in a rash from his body trying to break them all down.

He needed to find Dean and Bobby and kill of the rest of the pack before his shoulder took him completely out of commission.

Carefully, he took aim, mindful of the fact that every shot needed to count.

Exhaling, he pulled the trigger.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Bobby waved the torch at the Black Dog, forcing the creature back even as the two hunters were forced back into the crevice in the caves wall.

They'd managed to take out the first two creatures, but now they were out of spikes.

And Dean had one bullet left.

"Better make that shot count, then we have to hoof it!" Bobby shouted over the monster's snarling.

"I'm trying!" Dean called back. This Dog seemed smarter than the others, and it was quite a bit larger too, leading Dean to think that it must have been the leader.

Seeing an opening, he squeezed the trigger, but the creature shifted at the last moment, and the bullet punctured through it's neck, sending out a spray of dark, steaming blood.

It wasn't a fatal shot, not even a temporarily fatal one, but the sudden blood loss and pain took the creature down on one knee for a moment, stunned and wounded.

"Bobby, run!" Dean called, knowing that the older hunter had a better chance of making it out if he had a head start.

And if someone stayed behind to occupy the Black Dog.

"No way in hell, ya idjit!" Bobby yelled back, drawing out his pocket knife, and Dean reluctantly did the same. The dog was already regaining it's feet, and if it was mad before, now it's red eyes glinted in absolute fury.

Suddenly, from behind the creature, the sound of another shot rang out, and the creature jerked.

The other shooter's angle was wrong, they'd hit the dog in the shoulder, and the monster pivoted, lunging in one smooth movement toward it's new attacked. Bobby's torch had already started burning low, and in the jumping, guttering light Dean struggled to make out what was happening.

He recognized the lanky frame wrestling with the Black Dog, all long arms and longer legs.

_Sam._

Dean breathed a wordless sigh of relief even as he searched for a way to aid his brother.

His good intentions were unnecessary, however, as Sam, with a flash of silver catching the last of the torch's light, shoved a silver spike up and out, perfectly hitting the sweet angle between the Dog's rib's, and with a mournful howl, the creature collapsed, going still.

"Fucking A, Sammy!" Dean cried triumphantly, moving to his brother.

Sam didn't answer however, dazedly shaking his head, and then, as Dean watched in horror, he started to collapse in slow motion.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam looked around in sleepy confusion. He was...huh.

Oh...Okay.

He recognized the room now.

He was at Bobby's.

How did he get to Bobby's? Wasn't he somewhere else?

"Morning princess. Took you long enough. I was about to put up a Craigslist add to audition for a prince charming to come and give you a kiss." Dean's voice came from his right, and Sam looked over.

Dean was sitting on the other bed (_Dean's bed_, the sleepy voice in his head added, Dean always slept closest to the door).

"How..." Sam trailed off, trying to marshal his thoughts, but his mind felt fuzzy, like his head was full of cotton. With a start, he realized he was hooked up to an IV.

"Three days." Dean's voice was cheerful enough, but underneath it, Sam could hear the worry and fear.

"What...happened?" Sam finally managed.

Dean arched a brow. "Before or after Bobby and I carried your unconscious ass down the mountain?" He asked.

"Umm. Black Dog." Sam said, closing his eyes against the onslaught of the bright sun.

He could hear the sound of Dean moving and a moment later, the light attacking his eyes dimmed. He opened them carefully to see that Dean had shut the blinds.

"Thanks." He mumbled in his rusty voice. Dean came over and carefully helped Sam sit up. Dean held up a bottle a water, and Sam reached for it unthinkingly.

"My shoulder?" He said suddenly, hand paused in midair as he looked over to his shoulder.

It appeared completely undamaged, no stitches, no bandages, no scars.

Confused, he looked over to Dean.

"Cas." Dean offered, as Sam took the water bottle from him. Dean had already cracked the seal, and Sam found himself grateful, as his hands were a little shaky.

"His mojo's not what it was before, now that he's cut off from Heaven." Dean explained. "He was able to fix the damage to your shoulder, but the infection had already set it, and you'd lost a lot of blood."

Sam thought about Dean's words slowly, shaking his head. He didn't feel great, but he didn't feel like he'd almost bled to death, either.

"You take me to the hospital?" He asked uncertainly.

Dean shifted, then held out his arm for Sam to see the fading bruise inside the crook of his elbow.

"Bobby has a doctor friend. Brought over the saline drip. I already knew you and I were a match, so I just had him go ahead and tap a vein."

"Your...blood?" Sam asked a little incredulously. It wasn't that strange, on the surface, they had actually both donated for each other before, which was why Dean had known he and Sam were a match.

But that had been _before_, before.

Before Heaven and Ruby and Lucifer and the Demon's blood.

Dean met Sam's eyes. "Yeah." He said simply, and in that moment, Sam felt something click between them, something that had been missing for months, maybe years, if he were honest.

"I hope you used protection last week at that bar in Memphis, because that red-head might not have charged you, but only working girls wear heels like that." Sam said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the pillow.

Already, sleep was tugging at him, pulling him down again. Drowsily, he felt competent hands tug the blankets higher, as Dean snorted in amusement.

"I gotcha, Sammy." He heard Dean whisper softly as he drifted off.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Okay, I know you guys were getting restless because this story normally updates on Fridays, it just didn't work that way this week, so my apologies.**

**Okay, another prompt down. This chapter is based on a prompt from Hyb10, who wanted a story about a hurt Sam being left behind on a hunt by John and Dean and them returning to find...well, you guessed in. Sam!Whump**

**So, in other news. Yesterday, I had a killer day, with All The Pretty Monsters, Prisoner of War, AND Tuesday's Child all getting updates. With this update, that makes four chapters in thirty hours, so show me some love.**

**No, actually, how about reviews? LOL. But seriously, reviews mean the world to me, and they are also a great way to leave prompts, since I am still accepting them for this story. **

**Just keep it in canon, and romance free and you can take it from there. I would my prompts in order, oldest first, and I have three more to go at this point now that this is wrote. Or, if you have a canon prompt you'd like to see pursued but don't think it would fit this project, pm me and tag it "Salt and Burn Confessions" as I have always intended on starting a prompt based project that was canon but not necessarily so focused on hurt/comfort. I have a Sam centric project called Confessions of a Boy King that is Sam based that I would also accept canon prompts for.**

**So, lots and lots of goodies for everyone to read, and Jenjoremy, don't worry, according to my handy dandy notebook, your prompt came in next, so keep an eye out!**

**Please forgive my science, this is the idea I had for this prompt, so I bent it to suit my needs.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Ten**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Aspirin"**

Dean glanced back and forth between his little brother and his father and sighed.

John's face was set, lips pressed in a grim line, brow furrowed as he stared down his youngest son. Sam stared back defiantly, obviously furious, and quite obviously down for the count for the next few days.

The bruises decorating Sam's temple and jaw were already darkening from where the poltergeist had tossed down a flight of stairs back at the old farm house they had staked out the night before.

The poltergeist had been a feisty one, that was for sure, it had had the Winchesters ducking flying furniture and shattering glass half the night as they had tried to discover whatever object it was tied to. John had just located what he thought was a hidden crawl space in the attic when Sam had dropped his guard at exactly the wrong moment.

It had been a rookie mistake, that was true, but Sam was only fourteen, and they'd been at it for four hours already at that point. Dean knew Sam had stayed up late the night before studying for a calculus test (and God help him if John discovered that little fact any time soon) and in his exhaustion, the poltergeist had grabbed him up, tossing him down the attic stairs like an old pair of boots.

Dean's heart had practically stopped for a moment when he'd seen his little brother lying motionless on the landing, and he knew John had felt the same, which was part of the reason he was insisting on Sam remaining behind tonight.

That, and Sam's injuries, the bruises only being the most obvious. Sam had been limping all day, and his breath sounded just a touch wheezy, leading Dean to think that a rib might have been cracked, though Sam denied it hurt.

"I'm fine. I want to help finish this." Sam insisted.

"I'm not going to let you go back there again and get killed, or let you get me or your brother hurt instead." John said sharply, and Dean sucked in a breath.

Of course, John was still furious over Sam's lapse in attention the night before.

Sam snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

"Yes, Sir." He finally mumbled.

John's eyes narrowed at Sam's defiant tone. "And I want you to finish the rest of that Latin translation Bobby gave you last week. You've been dragging your feet. Research is an important part of hunting, just like being aware of your surroundings. Maybe you can put a little more effort into this task." John added harshly.

Sam's shoulder's stiffened, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn't say a word, instead heading into the kitchen where the book Bobby had sent him was stacked neatly next to some of Sam's textbooks.

"Let's go, Dean." John ordered summarily, turning and exiting the house.

Dean hesitated, wanting to say something to comfort his younger brother, knowing that John's words hadn't been entirely fair. Sammy did more than his fair share of research, sometimes on the fly for John and Dean when they were in the field and needed intel.

But he also knew that Sam's hunter training wasn't likely to get any easier any time soon, and besides, he felt disloyal saying anything against John.

"Don't stay up too late. I'll call when we're on out way back." He finally offered.

Sam didn't even turn around at his words. "I'll be here." He said flatly, and Dean sighed.

"_Don't stay up to late_," He repeated "And go easy on your ribs." He said, closing the front door behind him, double checking that the lock had caught.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam held on until he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala starting, along with the sound of John's new truck.

With a deep exhale, he sagged dispiritedly in his seat before wincing sharply, one hand going to his ribcage.

He head pounded, and he'd been seeing double off and on most of the day, though that had seemed to finally clear up a few hours ago. He was exhausted, the few hours of sleep he'd gotten before school that morning hadn't been near enough, but he'd hit up the coffee shop on the way home from school, and besides, he was used to being tired.

The ribs were proving to be a problem though. He;d played off Dean's concern, well aware that any other injuries coming to light would simply aggravate John further, but the truth was, Sam hadn't been able to pull in a deep breath since he'd woken up last night on the landing in the old farmhouse with Dean and John looking down at him worriedly.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, focusing on his breathing, but the sharp, insistent pain flared with every deep breath he wrenched from his chest.

Finally giving in, he settled for short, shallow breaths that didn't aggravate his lungs. He knew enough first aid to know that wasn't ideal, but he would manage for the night and hope the pain was better tomorrow.

Getting out the copy paper he was translating the book on, he settled in for a long night of work. The poltergeist was located over an hour and a half from the house they were currently renting, so Sam knew it would be several hours before he could expect Dean and John to return.

Nearly three hours had passed when he finally finished the translation.

Sighing, he laid down his pencil flexing his cramping hand as he tentatively tried to straighten up his back. His muscles had seemed to tighten up on his as he had hunched over the table, however, and his chest screamed at him in pain when he moved too fast.

Closing his eyes against the sharp pain flaring in his chest, Sam focused on breathing through the pain like Dean had taught him to.

Slowly, the pain began to subside.

Unfortunately, now his head was pounding once again.

Wearily, he glanced over at the living room table behind him, hoping against hope that the bottle of pain reliever he'd snagged from the bathroom that morning was still sitting on the coffee table, but the table was empty.

He cursed softly as he remembered seeing Dean carry the bottle back upstairs shortly before he and John had left.

A part of him was ready to throw the towel in for the night, but he still had chemistry homework to do, and Sam was already the youngest kid in the class. The teacher had taken an instant disliking to Sam, and Sam knew he wouldn't hesitate to use Sam's failure to do the assigned work as a reason to kick him out of the class.

He closed his eyes again, rubbing vainly at his forehead.

Okay.

It was just one flight of stairs, after all. He'd gone up and down them half a dozen times today already.

He was just stiff, as long as he moved slowly, he'd be fine. He'd grab the bottle of pain killers, and come back down and kill off his chemistry homework. It was only midnight, with any luck, he could be in bed by two, translation and homework done, and John would have nothing to find fault with.

He levered himself out of the chair with a low hiss of pain.

Slowly, like an old man instead of a kid of fourteen, he made his way to the staircase, bracing himself with every step. At the bottom, he took in as deep a breath as he could managed, before beginning his ascent.

The pain was bad, but not unbearable, and Sam made fairly good time, though he felt a little breathless at the top. The trek to the bathroom was fairly uneventful also, and Sam gratefully swallowed down three aspirin with a handful of water from the tap.

He made his way back to the staircase and started down, feeling more confident this time.

That was when the room suddenly tilted on it's axis, Sam's chest seeming to suddenly seize on him, and black dots were dancing in his vision, though whether they came from the pain in his head or the lack of oxygen, he was beyond telling.

He didn't even feel himself fall the last two thirds of the way down the stairs.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean let himself in quietly, frowning when he saw the lights still on in the kitchen. It was after three in the morning, Dean was exhausted, and Sam was probably asleep at the kitchen table, head on his books, like Dean found him at least twice a week.

Dean moved silently towards the kitchen, intent on waking his brother up and guiding him upstairs to bed so Dean could get some shut eye as well. John would be along in a few hours, and it was better if he didn't find Sam asleep over chemistry or calculus or whatever Sam was worrying over this week.

Dean's heart stuttered to a painful halt when he spied his brother splayed out at the foot of the stairs, a sinking sense of deja vu sweeping over to him as he ran to his brother's body.

Sam was breathing, but he was unconscious, pale with cold sweat beading his forehead and Dean recognized the signs of a person in shock.

"Sam? Sammy? SAM?" Dean called urgently as he ran practiced fingers along Sam's body, trying to decide whether it was safe to turn Sam over. Nothing he could find seemed broken, but Sam still wasn't responding.

Tentatively, Dean tilted his brother over carefully, sucking in his breath at the new, much larger bruise along his brother's temple, and now Sam's breathing had a gaspy, wet sound to it, as if he were choking on the air itself.

Dean spied a trickle of blood start to make it's way from Sam's open mouth, and the blood in hisown veins turned to ice as he put together Sam's symptoms.

Shock, that was blood loss. Low oxygen, that meant some sort of fluid in Sam's chest.

With shaking hands, Dean dialed 9-1-1.

"I need an ambulance, right away. My brother fell down the stairs. He hit his head, and he won't wake up. And I'm pretty sure his ribs are broken, bad..." He babbled, stroking back the sweaty hair from Sam's clammy forehead.

"What make's you think that, Sir?" The dispatcher asked.

"Because I think he's choking on his own blood." Dean replied, pulling Sam up onto his lap, against his chest as he listened for the ambulance, trying to give Sam's lungs the leverage they needed to breathe.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean looked up as John stumbled into the waiting room.

"Dean, what happened?" John barked, looking around wide eyed, as if Sam were going to walk into the room at any moment.

"Aspirin." Dean replied dully, looking down at his hands, where traces of Sam's blood could still be seen.

John recognized the signs of shock as well as Dean could, and he knelt immediately in front of his oldest, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around Dean's shaking shoulders.

"Start at the beginning." He said gently, even as his eyes searched for a nurse. The small town hospital was quiet, the Winchester's the only family in the waiting room this late, or rather, this early.

"Sam's in surgery. The doctor came out a few moments ago. Sam fell, I..." Dean swallowed before continuing. "I found him at the foot of the stairs when I came home. The doctor's said he already had a concussion, that could have been what made him fall, or maybe it was the ribs."

"Ribs?" John prodded, rubbing Dean's shoulder soothingly.

Dean nodded. "Sammy must have broken a couple of ribs last night, at the farmhouse. When he fell last night, the doctor's said it pushed a fragment into Sam's lung."

"It punctured it?" John asked, a pool of dread growing. "That's what they're trying to fix?"

"If they can." Dean replied bleakly. "He keeps bleeding, Dad. They asked if he'd taken anything that would make him bleed more than normal. I found a bottle of aspirin on the floor where he fell. He's been taking the stuff all day. And now he won't stop bleeding and he couldn't breathe, Dad, we was barely breathing..." Dean broke then, and John simply gathered him into his arms, fighting his own emotions down as he realized he needed to be clear headed for both of his sons right now.

"It's okay, Dean. Sammy's going to be okay."

"You don't know that." Dean whispered brokenly, and John had to choke back a sob of his own.

"Sammy's tough, Dean. He held on until you got there." John reassured his eldest, as a man in blue scrubs entered the room grimly.

"Family of Sam Winchester?" He asked, and John nodded tersely.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

The two oldest Winchester's kept vigil at Sam's bedside for three days. The doctor's had managed to repair the damage to Sam's lung, and he'd been extubated on his second day. He was breathing well enough, but he wouldn't wake up.

The Doctor explained that Sam had crashed twice in the operating room, and had needed three separate blood transfusions to make up for what the doctors had pumped from his lungs. Between the concussion, and the fact that the Doctors had no way of knowing just how long Sam's brain had been forced to go without oxygen, things looked pretty grim.

The Winchester's didn't give up, though. Both John and Dean slept in Sam's room room every night. John and Dean took turns going out for food, and they ate in Sam's room. Neither man had showered in days.

Dean quelled his restlessness through sheer force of will, returning on the second day with two of Sam's text books. Gearing himself up for the long haul, he opened the book to the first chapter, and started reading.

John, who had been silent at first, took up where Dean left off whenever Dean's voice would start to go out, and the two men continued like that, moving from one book to another, the cadence of their voices a steady lullaby offsetting the beeping on the various monitors Sam was hooked up to.

More than once, the nurses would simply stop in the door way and watch the family of three, broken though it seemed.

Once, a kindly nurse had offered to take over for Dean, but Dean had simply shook his head doggedly.

"He's my brother." He said simply, and turned the page, launching back into the chapter without another word.

Dean was so tired by the third night that the words of the page he was reading were starting to dance on the paper, and John had turned from the window as Dean's voice flagged, about to offer to take over, when his eyes widened.

"Sammy?" John asked tentatively, and Dean's eyes flew to the head of the bed, where, sure enough, a sleepy pair of hazel eyes met his.

"Dude..." Sam's rusty voice echoed quietly in the now silent room. "You are totally mispronouncing that word. Didn't you ever go to class?"

The book dropped from Dean's numb fingers as jumped up with a loud whoop of excitement that had the nurses running into the room quicker than the call button ever would have.

Dean ignored their fluttering and questions, shifting forward to lean his forehead against Sam's.

"I was doing it on purpose, you know. Bitch." Dean whispered, closing his eyes against the sting of tears.

Sam snorted, making a small face of pain. "Sure you were, jerk."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Okay, Jenjoremy, here is your prompt, I hope I did it justice. For everyone else, since she shot it my way in a PM, the prompt was Hurt!Sam, caught in a rock slide, and Dean being forced to decide to stay and triage as best he could, or go and get help.**

**For the record, I personally think going to get help would have been smarter, but the Dean living in my head told me to screw off, because nothing in hell was going to make him leave his kid brother alone, in the cold, on a mountain, in the dark.**

**Stubborn Winchesters!**

**Okay, reviews are love. Tuesday's child updated a little while earlier, so please check it out if you haven't. All The Pretty Monsters is set to update next, and then maybe Prisoner of War if I am still awake at that point.**

**I am still accepting accepting prompts for this story. I work my prompts in order, oldest first, and after this I have around five or six left. This story will go as long as I have prompts, so keep them coming. Specific is fine, as long as it basically fits canon. No romance, no smut, no bashing. General prompts are okay also, but in all honestly, when I get a more general one I am less sure I am writing the story you want to read. For instance, in this one, Jenjoremy let me know she wanted Dean to have to decide what to do, so I made sure I included his thought process. **

**Prompts are love, especially when left in a review...**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer : Not my sandbox, kiddos.**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Eleven**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Storms"**

It was a perfect storm, really.

Or perhaps it would be more correct to say, it was a _series_ of perfect storms.

Wendigos usually had a set hunting round.

Wendigos seldom strayed from their set hunting grounds.

Wendigos only even woke up every couple of decades in order to stalk their set hunting grounds in the first place.

So, the fact that a Wendigo stalked a series of hiking trails and campgrounds that just happened to be a few miles away from a girl scout sleep away campsite was unfortunate.

It was even more unfortunate the the Wendigo had awoken the same year that a series of ferocious thunderstorms had washed out several of the trails in it's hunting grounds, and closed even more, forcing the Wendigo to hunt even further afield than normal, meaning that the poor, unsuspecting girls scouts, with their cookies and songs and campfires, who should have been out of the Wendigo's hunting range by at least two miles, were now potential victims, and that the latest storm had also taken out the mountain's only cell phone tower.

So the entire thing was really just very...unfortunate.

But it was alright, because the Winchesters had arrived, and the Winchesters had a plan.

They also had maps, compasses, flare guns and the attitude and know-how to use all of the above.

What they did not have, however, was a weather forecast, which would have warned them that they were about to go hunt a Wendigo in yet another storm.

But that was alright, because the Winchester's were tough cookies.

_Rain?_ No problem.

_Wendigo?_ Up in flames.

_Girls Scouts?_ Safe and clueless, just the way the Winchester's preferred their eight-year olds to be.

_Washed out mountain trails forcing them to go off track to get back to the Impala?_ Bring it on.

Rock slide catching Sam Winchester by surprise, knocking him unconscious, pining his right leg and ankle, and also managing to clip Dean Winchester in the right shoulder, thereby dislocating his dominant arm?

Okay...

So that was a problem.

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"Sam? Sammy? SAM!" Dean said frantically, attempting as best he could to triage his unconscious brother with his left hand.

His right arm hung, useless and screaming bloody murder, and every time Dean accidentally shifted it, black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Sam remained unmoving, however, offering his brother no response, and Dean was stuck. Sam had taken a hard knock to his head, and God only knew when he would wake up.

Dean's eyes searched their surroundings worriedly, but he could see nothing that would offer the brothers any assistance.

With Dean's arm as it was, he not only couldn't free Sam from the rocks, but he couldn't manage the fireman's carry that would allow Dean to get his Sasquatch sized brother down the mountain.

And that was assuming Sam had no internal injuries, wasn't currently bleeding into his brain or his chest, that one of his legs wasn't severed underneath the rocks, and that the sky didn't open up again at any moment, giving them both pneumonia while Dean stared at his useless cell phone wondering what to do.

Fear and panic were clawing their way up Dean's throat, but he pushed them down ruthlessly.

He had to decide what to do.

Stay and hope Sam woke up and was somehow able, from his awkward position, pinned to the ground as he was, to help Dean pop his shoulder back into place?

Even if Sam woke up clear headed enough to understand what needed to be done, who was to say he wouldn't be in too much pain to manage it?

But the other option was just as agonizing...

Go by himself down the mountain, until he either reached a place where his cell phone was able to pick up a signal or he reached the car and drove until he could?

With only one good arm, his balance was off, he couldn't shoot his gun, catch himself if he fell, and honestly, driving wouldn't be impossible, but it would be difficult and painful.

If Dean knocked his shoulder the wrong way while he was driving or even still hiking down, he could pass out, and then both brothers would be in a bad place.

What was more, Sam was already starting to shiver on the cold, sodden ground.

While Dean could see no other blood than what trickled from the cut on his head, where an impressive bruise was already starting to form, the shivering was obvious, and Sam's face was pale, lips nearly colorless.

How could he leave Sam alone, in the cold, as dark was already starting to fall?

What if he woke up and Dean was gone? Would he think that Dean was hurt also, trapped under the rocks?

Or would he think Dean had chosen to leave him behind, too confused by his head wound to understand Dean's reasoning?

The thought of an injured Sam, confused and alone, was more than Dean could bear.

Making his decision, Dean dropped his pack, thanking god that John had taught them to make fire starters that would get even damp wood burning.

He quickly (or, as quickly as he could, one handed) gathered up some wood and started a small fire as close as he dared to where Sam was pinned.

Best case scenario, someone might spot the fire and come investigate, and at the least, perhaps is would help ward off hypothermia, as Sam's lips were now nearly blue.

Next, Dean's arm.

He eyed a nearby tree speculatively. If he braced his shoulder against it just right, maybe he could use it as leverage to force his shoulder back...

The first time he tried, he did actually pass out the a few moments, coming to on the ground, wet now also.

The second time, he stopped when the black spots returned, afraid if he was unconscious too long, the fire would go out, and with it, the Winchesters only source of heat and light.

Breathing deeply, he went back over to check on his brother. Sam's shivering was starting to settle down, which was either good, meaning the fire was doing it's job, or very, very bad.

Because it could also mean Sam was hypothermic, his body no longer able to shiver in attempt to create warmth.

A hand on Sam's head warned Dean that the situation was, in fact, the worst case scenario.

"Sam? Sammy, come on, buddy, you gotta wake up, SAM!" Dean called out urgently, knowing it was now more crucial then ever that Sam wake up and try to move, or at least regain consciousness and tell Dean how bad it was.

The panic was back now, as Dean prayed he hadn't made the wrong decision by not going to get help, but every bone in his body was programmed to protect the helpless man before him, trapped and injured, and Dean would have had an easier time gnawing his own arm off than leaving him behind.

"D'en?" Sam finally mumbled, without opening his eyes.

Dean nearly sagged to the ground in relief. Things were still bad, and they both now probably needed an ER, but at least Sam knew who Dean was, which was a starting place.

Dean had done a hell of a lot more with a hell of a lot less, when it came to his brother.

"Hey, hey there, kiddo..." Dean murmured, kneeling carefully, despite the fact that Sam was in his late twenties now.

Sam would always be his kid.

"Dean." Sam finally repeated, a little more clearly, and this time he cracked open one eye also.

"Head..." He muttered, and Dean nodded, though Sam had already closed his eyes again.

"I know, I know, Sammy. Sam, do you remember where we are? Do you know what happened?" Dean asked, trying to establish how functional Sam's mind was at the moment.

Sam sighed, scrunching his brow. "Mountain. Wendigo." He finally offered.

A pause, and then, tentatively, as if he were guessing, he added "Rocks?"

"Yes, that's right, Sam. That's good. We came after a Wendigo, and we toasted the SOB. But we came down the wrong path, and you got caught in a rock slide."

"You...kay?" Sam mumbled, and Dean shook his head, grinning a little. Sam didn't even seem to realize he was trapped, but he was still checking on Dean.

"My shoulder's out of place, and your legs are pinned. You knocked your noggin, too, that's why your brain feels like oatmeal right now." Dean said softly, stroking the hair out of Sam's face. Sam was talking well enough, but he was still freezing, and now Dean was shivering too.

"Me...put it back?" Sam offered weakly, earning a chuckle from Dean.

"Let's take inventory first, kiddo. What hurts?" Dean asked.

Sam made a bitch face at Dean, and Dean laughed again. "Okay. Okay, sorry, I get it. Everything hurts. What hurts the most?"

Sam closed his eyes, thinking the question through. "Head. Leg hurts, but it's a numb kind of hurt. Think the rocks are cutting off some circulation."

Dean hissed in a breath through his teeth, because that was bad. Not only did Sam not mention the cold, even once, but if they didn't get the rocks off his leg, Sam might loose it.

Okay. Drastic measures.

"Sammy, I know it's gonna be tough lying down, but your going to force my arm into place, so I can get these damn rocks off you, okay buddy? Sam, Sammy, you with me?"

After a moment, Sam opened his eyes again. "Tired, D'en." He mumbled.

Swallowing, Dean resorted to playing dirty. "I know, Sam, but my arm hurts bad, man. It's killing me, I need your help."

Predictably, that got a stronger reaction out of Sam than discussing Sam's own injuries.

"Help...you." He muttered, trying to shift minutely so his back was flatter on the ground.

Once Sam seemed satisfied that he had as much leverage as he was going to get, he held up his arms, helping Dean guide his shoulder into the correct position.

"Gravity..." Sam mumbled, and Dean nodded his understanding, though he was looking forward to the pain of his body weight falling towards his brother, the momentum hopefully helping Sam get the shoulder back into place.

"One...two..." Dean said.

"Three." Sam replied, and Dean let himself fall forward.

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Sam stared up into the sky, shifting his body so that his knee wasn't stretched out quite so far.

"Pain bad again?" Dean asked from the motel doorway, shaking Sam's bottle of pain killers in Sam's direction where he lay on the hood of the Impala, soaking up the weak spring sunlight.

"Nah, just stiff." Sam replied, brushing his hair out of his eyes, fingers coasting along the gauze on his temple Dean had replaced only a few hours ago.

The hospital hadn't wanted either brother to leave as soon as they had, but AMA was the Winchester's standard MO, as insurance wasn't exactly a benefit in their line of work.

"How about your head? Are you warm enough? You need a jacket? What about a blanket?" Dean asked, and Sam sighed even as he smiled a little.

It would take Dean a while to come down from super-brother mode.

Dean had passed out, that night on the mountain, for about an hour and a half, by Sam's guess. Sam had been firmly entrenched in hypothermia by that time, thoughts gone wide and wondering as he passed in and out of consciousness.

Dean had actually passed out on top of Sam, and the heat of his body was probably why Sam was alive right now.

Sam could vaguely remember staring up at the sky that night too, over his brother's shoulder, as the stars had winked and danced in the cool spring air.

By the time Dean had come to, Sam was pretty much insensible, the head wound and cold pushing him beyond even his own rather impressive limits.

Fortunately, with two good arms and a healthy dose of Winchester stubbornness, his brother had made short work of the rocks pinning Sam down.

The doctors had said that it was a miracle, that _Sam_ was a miracle.

Had the rock struck an inch further to the side of his head, he would have almost certainly starting bleeding in his brain, as that was where the bone was the thinnest.

Had Dean not been laying on top of him, he would have froze to death before Dean had awoken.

Had the rocks been even a little heavier, even a little sharper, had one single jagged edge landed differently, not only would Sam have certainly lost his leg, he might have bled out before anything else had had a chance to kill him.

One of the doctors had called it a perfect storm of events.

A cloud must have gone across the sun, because darkness suddenly shaded Sam's eyes. Opening them, he realized it was just Dean standing beside the Impala, looking down at Sam.

In one hand, he held a pair of sunglasses, and in the other, a blanket.

"You're either going to catch a cold or get a sunburn, but I haven't decided which." Dean declared, and Sam tilted his head back and laughed.

Perfect Storm?

Bring it on.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: And here is some "How To Fix A Winchester" love for all of you. This chapter is based off of a prompt from Colby's Girl. She asked for a strangled Sam having trouble breathing, and a guilty Dean not realizing it because he had left after they had fought. **

**I was having a little trouble convincing Dean to leave, however, and finally, the only way he would go was because he genuinely thought Sam was cleared to fly. So, no actual strangling, but plenty of fighting, guilt, swelling, wheezing and trying to reach big brother. Hopefully five out of six is okay for now, because my muse refused to strangle Sam tonight, so Colby's Girl, I hope you forgive me for tweaking your prompt a little. **

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not Mine**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Twelve**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Arguments"**

Dean looked bleakly at the doctor as he stood over Sam's hospital bed.

"Your brother's responding to the medicine very well, Mr. Morrison, but until he regains consciousness, we can't begin weaning him off the ventilator. The few trials we've run in the last two hours have been pretty hit and miss, and I'm not willing to take a chance, especially as this appears to be some kind of delayed reaction."

Dean nodded mutely, and after fiddling with the monitor for another moment, the doctor left, and Dean was left alone with the quiet of the steadily beeping machines, and a little brother who refused to open his eyes.

Stubborn little shit.

Dean sighed, leaning forward, shifting his shoulders as he tried to relieve some of the gathered tension in his neck and back. One of the nurses had suggested heading home and grabbing a hot shower and some food, but Dean had waved her off, knowing how panicked Sam would be when he woke up with a tube shoved down his throat.

If he woke up, that is.

Dean quashed that thought as soon as his mind gave birth to it, refusing to believe that an allergic reaction, of all things, would take down his pain in the ass little brother.

"Come on, Sam. Open your damn eyes already so we can finish our fight like men." He whispered.

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(Seven Hours Earlier)

Sam cursed as he dodged another air born spike, thinking less than charitable thoughts about his brother.

When would his brother learn to ask first and shoot later? Was it so crazy for Sam to want to know the stupid little details about the monsters they were hunting?

Details like, oh, say, Gremlins could shoot poisonous spikes?

Crazy, right?

"Anytime, Dean!" He hollered, dodging another volley of spikes.

The old factory was practically falling down around them, and as Sam leapt over an old conveyor belt, he felt a stinging pain in his side.

Well, shit.

Yanking the spike out as quickly as he could, he was thankful to see Dean burst through the door with the homemade gas bombs.

For some stupid reason, Sage killed gremlins faster than fire or silver, and a few well placed bombs could take out even a large infestation, which was a good thing, because Gremlin nests apparently tended to be very large.

Very, very large.

As in, _almost three-dozen strong_ large.

Another teeny tiny pointless detail.

Sam had wanted to do more research, wait for Bobby's call back, but Dean had insisted that the info in Dad's journal would be enough.

Obviously.

After the first volley of spikes had entrenched themselves into the wooden doorframe next to Dean's face, Sam's brother had changed his mind quickly, and they'd retreated to the Impala. Sam hadn't had any books on Gremlins in the car, but he'd had on on leprechauns (Dean insisted on it ever since Sam had been poisoned last year).

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the very last chapter had mentioned that Gremlins and Leprechauns were distant cousins, though gremlins were rarer and meaner.

And thought to be toxic.

Bobby had called back a moment later with the sage info, and Dean and Dean had set to work making the Sage bombs. The gremlins had started creeping outside with the setting of the sun, however, and Dean's ankle had been giving him problems off and on all week (he'd twisted it a few days ago, aggravating an old break from shortly after Sam had rejoined Dean, and the hunting life). So Sam had gone in, with the intention of keeping the creatures focused and in one place while Dean finished up the bombs.

"Sammy, you clear?" Dean called, lighting the first fuse.

"Go for it!" Sam called back, reaching his brother's side, and grabbing up a couple a bombs of his own, lobbing them with deadly accuracy.

Soon the factory was filled with the stench of burning sage, and before the brothers very eyes, the gremlins started dropping like flies.

"Well, look at that." Dean said with a grin, looking over at Sam.

Sam made a bitch face at his grinning brother, holding up the spike for Dean to see. "Yeah."

Dean's face morphed from jubilant to serious in a heartbeat, and in the next instant, he had dragged Sam out of the factory and into the weak light of the only working street lamp near the abandoned factory.

"You okay? How many hit you? Where at? What hurts?" Dean fired the questions off rapidly, yanking Sam's shirt up nearly to his armpits as soon as Sam gestured to his side.

"It doesn't hurt much." Sam offered reluctantly. It was the truth, but he was still aggravated about the entire thing.

Dean knelt, probing the wound carefully. "There's no swelling or drainage, I thought you said those bastards were poisonous?"

Sam made an irritated face. "Well, either their not, or I'm immune. I didn't exactly get a chance to do all my homework, did I?"

Dean stood, letting Sam's shirt drop. "Huh, well, that's a lucky break one way or another then. Make sure you wash it when we get back to the motel."

As the brother's made their way back to the motel, Dean started whistling (a habit of his whenever he considered a hunt successfully concluded) but with every mile, Sam felt his irritation grow.

He could have been killed. They both could have been killed. Or maimed, or eaten, or a hundred other things, hell, anything could have happened, just because Dean hadn't wanted to wait on intel.

By the time they reached their motel, Sam was seeing red, he was so angry. He slammed into their room, throwing his duffel onto the bed.

"Dude, what's your problem?" Dean asked, looking at Sam as if he were crazy.

Ha.

As if Sam were the crazy brother.

"What's my problem?" Sam snarled. "My problem is we almost got killed tonight, I almost got killed tonight, just because you couldn't wait the play exterminator."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Dude, you saw the size of that nest. They had already taken out most of the neighborhood pets. It was only a matter on time before they moved on to bigger prey. We had to act!"

"Like hell, Dean." Sam snapped. "We could have waited another day, or, I don't know, another hour? One of those things shot me, Dean. What if that stupid book had been right. I could be dead right now, because you were trigger happy."

"Hey! Don't take that tone with me!" Dean snapped back. "You agreed, time was short. We've gone in blind before, the monsters don't always give you advanced notice. Sometimes you just have to wing it."

"It was sloppy, Dean. Plain and simple. It was shoddy work, and Dad would have skinned us alive for half-assing the job." Sam yelled, and Dean pulled back in shock at the mention of John.

The topic of John was mostly taboo, a barely healed wound, and for the most part, neither brother brought him up unless it was necessary.

"You know what, screw you Sammy. How many times have I been bait while you made the bomb, or whatever the hell it took, huh? Screw. You." Dean said, pulling his jacket back on.

"Where the hell are you going!" Sam said, so angry he was seeing red.

"Out." His brother snarled, and slammed the door.

A moment later, Sam heard the Impala's engine start up.

Asshole.

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(Six Hours Earlier)

Dean slammed into the bar with a 'don't fuck with me attitude' and unfortunately for Dean, everyone in the bar was wise enough to head it, because, Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a good fight about now.

What he really wanted to do was pound his jack ass little brother into the ground, but Dean knew he had a bad habit of taking his anger out on Sam, and usually, Sam let him.

Dean could still remember those first few rough months after John had died, when he had hit Sam more than once in his pain and anger, and Sam had just...let him.

Though memories, for some reason, had haunted him more than most after the pain of John's passing had faded, and Dean had sworn he'd keep his damn fists to himself.

But, oh man, did Sam ever push Dean's buttons sometimes.

What the fuck had gotten into the kid?

"Whiskey, double." He ordered curtly, and when the bar tended brought it, he drained it in one go, and nodded for the next.

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(Five Hours Earlier)

Sam paced the motel room, trying vainly to walk off the fury that still coursed through his veins, but instead, the anger only seemed to grow. His hands were shaking, and his was actually so upset it made his chest feel tight, his skin hot and prickly.

Decided maybe a shower would literally let him blow off some steam, he headed into the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he went, dropping it carelessly one the floor.

Standing in front of the mirror, he tried to decide if his hands were steady enough to let him shave. Deciding he might as well go for it, he bent over, turning on the shower, turning the heat to high. Dean had mentioned the water had taken forever to come on that morning, and Sam wasn't in the mood for a cold shower, no matter how pissed at Dean he still was.

Just the thought of Dean made a wave of rage crash though him, making his limbs jittery and his hands twitchy. He opened his eyes again, startled to see the mirror had already fogged up, the bathroom now filled with steam.

How long had he stood there, trying to regain his temper.

He shook his head, rattled by the feeling of having lost time somehow, and wiped the condensation of the mirror.

He frowned at the pallor of his complexion, startled by the dark circles under his eyes. The steam in the bathroom was suddenly too thick, it was actually had to breath now, and as Sam turned to open the bathroom door to let some of the steam out, a flash of red in the mirror caught his attention.

He looked down and realized his wound from earlier had turned a dark, angry red. The room seemed to shimmer around him, and Sam leaned quickly against the wall, sliding down to the ground as he lost his balance.

He was still having trouble catching his breath, and, stupidly enough, he was still freaking pissed off at his brother, and dimly, some part of his brain realized that was not right, that he should be calling Dean, right now, because something was wrong...

He blinked again, and maybe he was losing time, because now it was even harder to breath, and wasn't he going to call someone...

Dean.

Sam was going to call Dean.

Wait, wasn't he made at Dean?

His breath whistled in and out in sort, wheezy breaths, and that was bad, Sam knew that was bad, but he didn't know what to do about it, couldn't think of what he should do.

Maybe Dean would know...

With numb, clumsy fingers, he pulled out his phone, but the numbers swam in front of his eyes, and Sam blinked, trying to clear them...

A moment later, the phone fell to the bathroom floor, Sam slumped unconscious beside it, each breath shorter, wheezier that the last.

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(Four Hours Ago)

Dean finally took out his phone, expecting to see a host of angry texts from his brother, but to his surprise, the only notifications were of a missed call from Bobby.

Dean stood, testing his balance, pleased to find he could walk relatively well. The motel was only a few blocks away, but Dean didn't like taking chances with his baby.

As he exited the bar, he called Bobby.

"Took you long enough." The older hunter grumbled. "I take it you guys managed the gremlins?"

"Yeah, but don't ask Sam about it anytime soon. Kid's PMS'ing or something." Dean said in aggravation.

"Well, at least neither one of you got stung." Bobby said.

"Actually, I think that's what ticked Sam off. One off the little suckers got off a lucky shot, and Sam took offense big time."

"What?" Booby exclaimed. "Why the hell didn't you say you were at the hospital?"

"Why would we be at the hospital?" Dean said in confusion as he started the Impala.

"Because Gremlins are big-time poisonous, ya idjit!" Bobby practically yelled.

"That's what we thought, too. But Sam was fine, just righteously ticked off." Dean answered, pulling out of the lot.

"Dean, where's your brother, where's Sam at right now?" Bobby said urgently, and Dean frowned at his tone.

"Back at the motel. I was tired of his pissy mood. Why?" Dean said, as a sinking feeling crept into his stomach.

"When you say 'pissy' ya mean screaming and hollering for no good reason?" Bobby asked quickly.

"Yes, okay. He was in a mood. What the hell is going on, Bobby?" Dean said, pressing harder on the gas, eager now to get back to their room.

"Gremlin poison's delayed, Dean. It triggers a massive fight or flight reflex. Irritability, anger, rage, those are just the first signs. Then you have the shakes, racing heart, and trouble breathing."

"Trouble breathing?" Dean said, alarmed. "How bad we talking, Bobby?" He asked, as the motel came into view.

"Get to Sam, Dean. Now. Get off, and call 911, right now." Bobby actually hung up on Dean, which was probably a good thing, as all of Dean's cognitive function had diminished drastically as he screeched into the parking lot of the motel. Flying out of the car, he raced for their room, shoving the key into the lock.

"Sam? SAMMY?" He called, looking around worriedly. The main room was empty, but the bathroom door was cracked, and Dean could here the water running.

"Sam? SAM-"

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

(Present Time)

Dean refused to sleep, watching the monitors instead, counting heartbeats to ward off the images off the frantic paramedics desperately trying to get the trach down Sam's throat.

Sam had been nearly blue, and they had been ready to cut a hole in his throat, when one of them finally managed to get the trach in.

Things hadn't gotten any better when they'd reached the hospital. Sam's oxygen was been so low it barely registered, even with the ventilator, his blood pressure had kept dropping, his heartbeat completely erratic.

The doctors had grilled Dean, frantic to figure out what had triggered what they assumed to be an allergic reaction. When steroids had done very little, they'd started trying anti-venom.

They had had to use an Epi-pen on him twice, and Dean vowed to snag a couple of those when they left the hospital.

Eventually, though nothing seemed to actually help, Sam appeared to crest some kind of hill, blood pressure and heartbeat stabilizing, though, as the doctor had said, he still needed the ventilator.

Though Dean hated seeing Sam with a tube down his throat, anything was better than the white skin and blue lips, the way Sam had slumped like a rag doll...

Guilt ate at Dean, and he was forced to admit that Sam's rant had been right. Though, had he not been suffering the aftereffects of the toxin, he probably would never have said anything.

Sam was good at that, at knowing that sometimes Dean just had to act, to fight, to keep moving forward, like a shark that had to swim or risk drowning.

Sam seemed to know that sometimes Dean needed to put the bad guys behind them, fast and brutal, one more lock between him and the rest of the world.

But this time, Dean's carelessness hadn't gotten one of them a twisted ankle, or a broken arm.

It had nearly gotten Sam killed.

So Dean settled in, knowing his eyes wouldn't close until he'd seen Sam's open, until Sam was breathing on his own, until Dean didn't have to count heartbeats to stave of the demons.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Sam looked up from where he was stealthily packing his bag. The next shift of nurses were due to come on the clock any moment, and he'd thought Dean was more than ready to blow this Popsicle stand.

Sam had been there two days already, having been extubated yesterday morning, a less than pleasant experience, to say the least.

Finally, Dean walked in, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Dude?" Sam asked, voice still a little hoarse from the venom and the ventilator.

"Here, put these in your bag." Dean shoved a handful of something into Sam's hands, and he looked down, curious to see what Dean would think was worth risking being caught for.

The medical jargon was as wordy as ever, but after a moment, Sam realized they were Epi-Pens, like Jess had carried for her peanut allergy.

He raised a brow inquiringly.

Dean just shook his head. "Let's move, man. Bobby's expecting us by nightfall."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Okay, a short little fluffy weechester one shot. This one is a request from ChillyWinterBreeze, who wanted a sick Dean being taken care of by "Doctor" Sam.**

**Reviews are love, and canon compliant prompts are still accepted. Prompts are worked in order.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter Thirteen**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Sick Days"**

Dean coughed miserably as he scooted further down into the blankets. He eyed the clock sleepily. It was one o'clock, the school nurse had sent him home half an hour ago, when his fever reached one hundred one degrees. While Dean didn't mind missing school, he needed to set the alarm so he'd wake up in time to get Sammy from preschool...

What felt like only moments later, he cracked his eyes open, sitting up quickly with a gasp when he realized it was dark outside.

_Sammy..._

Glancing frantically at the clock, he realized it was after five. Winter fell early in the north, and he only hoped Sammy's preschool teacher had let him wait inside, but jeez, Dean was nearly two hours late...

Dean stopped where he was, half-way out of the bed, when he heard a low giggle.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, the question ending on a cough. "Sam?"

The giggle sounded again, and Dean crawled slowly to the end on the bed, staring down on the floor.

Sam was lying on his stomach, giggling as he watched...what was he watching?

"Sammy?" Dean asked in confusion, feeling off center with illness and surprise.

Sam rolled over onto his back, staring up at his brother with an impish smile.

"Hi Dean." He said.

"What are you doing? How did you get here? Oh, Geez, did Dad have to come get you?" Dean rattled the questions off quickly, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders with a shiver.

Sam looked at him with large eyes. "Ants and I walked." He said after a moment.

"You walked with someone's Aunt?" Dean said, trying to make sense of his little brother's chatter.

Sam giggled again. "No, silly. I walked with Tommy's older sister. She helped me cross the street. And I'm watching the ants. Ants are really strong, did you know that Dean? We learned about them at school. What's wrong with you, anyway? You never ever sleep before me. And how come you didn't come get me? I felt like Peter Pan. I started looking for Tinker Bell, but then Tommy's sister Susan said I better walk with them. They only live a couple of streets over and she said I could come and eat with them but I said I always eat with you, so here I am, and I'm hungry."

Dean blinked slowly, trying to make sense of Sam's ramble. He looked down at the carpet.

Okay, one mystery solved.

A trail of ants were marching from the abundance of crumbs beneath Sam's seat at the dining table to a crack in the baseboard near one wall.

He blinked again,

Tommy.

Okay. That made sense too, he supposed. Tommy was the little red-headed kid in Sammy's class. His older sister must have helped Sam get back to the motel.

That wasn't good, Dad always told Dean to keep their home a secret, but he supposed it was better than Sammy trying to cross the busy streets by himself, or waiting outside in the cold until Dean came.

Geez, some creeper could have grabbed him and it would be all Dean's fault for not setting the stupid alarm clock.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asked, face suddenly only an inch from Dean's own.

"What, Sammy?" Dean asked tiredly. He wished he could go back to sleep, but Sammy was hungry and Dean had already messed up pretty badly. Being sick was no excuse, he knew better, and John would be mad if he found out.

"Are you sick? You look like Jenny before she got sent home yesterday, and she was sick. Her Mom had to come and take her to the doctor." Sam's eyes got big. "Do YOU need to go to the doctor?"

Dean shook his head quickly, trying not to alarm his easily excitable brother. Sam had recently begun asking questions, all sorts of questions, about every little teeny tiny aspect of their life, but one of the re-occurring themes in his questioning was the subject of their mother.

Dean didn't want Sam deciding that Dean was going to die or something just because he and Dean didn't have a mom to take Dean to the doctor.

He forced his legs to stand. "I am a little sick." He admitted, "But only a little. I feel a lot better now that I slept. What do you want for dinner?"

Sam looked at him sceptically. "You don't look better..." He said.

Dean scowled. "Well, I am. So, what do you want?"

Sam chewed his lip. "Chicken and stars?" He asked after a moment.

Dean stopped, examining his brother closely. They always kept a can of chicken and stars on hand for Sam for when he got sick, as it was his favorite.

Dean frowned, reaching out to feel Sam's forehead, but his own body temperature was too high for him to be a good judge.

"Do you feel sick?" He asked Sam.

Sammy shook his head. "No, Dean. It's for you. They make me better. It's the stars..." He added conspiratorially.

Dean just sighed, lacking the energy to argue.

The soup was heated up easily enough, and in less than an hour, the boys were back on the bed, watching TV.

Dean fought to stay awake, it was at least another hour until Sam's bedtime, but his eyelids didn't seem to get the memo...

He jerked awake a moment later when a blindingly bright light shone into his eyes.

"What the heck, Sammy?" He yelled, pulling away from his flashlight wielding little brother.

Sam had donned one of John's white shirts, and it hung past his knees. "Say 'aaahhhhh'" Sam commanded.

"What? No, why?" Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Cause I'm the doctor and I said you have too..." He said sternly.

"Jeez, Sammy, no. Enough. I'm sick, I don't want to play!" Dean snapped without meaning to, to tired and too sick for the patience required to deal with Sam in one of his playful moods.

Dean felt bad immediately, as tears welled up in Sam's large hazel eyes, but he didn't say a word, just scooted back to the other end of the couch, pulling his knees up inside the overly large shirt, making him seem even smaller.

Dean sighed. "Hey, Sammy. I'm sorry. You just surprised me. You can't just shine light in someone's eyes..."

Sam sniffed and nodded, avoiding Dean's eyes.

Dean sighed again. Now he was in for it.

"Look, how about you pick what we watch next?" He offered.

Sam shook his head silently, tucking his arms inside the shirt now also, like he was trying to disappear.

"You want me to read to you?" Dean offered desperately. His throat was sore and scratchy, but Sammy Winchester in a bad mood was not one of Dean's favorite things.

Again, Sam shook his head, managing to make himself appear to shrink even further into the shirt, like a turtle under attack.

Dean had an idea. "Hey, Sam, do we have any popsicles left? The doctor's on TV always give the kids popsicles..."

Slowly, large hazel eyes met green, blinking cautiously.

After a moment, Sam shook his head. "That's for stoperations." He said.

"Operations." Dean corrected automatically.

Sam shook his head. "Stoperations. They stop the bad stuff." He insisted. "And first you have to ride in the ambilance..."

Dean chuckled despite how rotten he felt.

"Well, I feel like I had a 'stoperation'. A popsicle might make me feel better, but I guess you'd have to ask a doctor..." Dean added, with a grin.

Sam grinned back. "I can be the doctor?" He said shyly.

Dean nodded, Sam's smile worth the hassle.

Forty five minutes later, Dean stretched happily, feeling warm for the first time all day. Sam was curled up against his side, something that normally would bother Dean a little, since Sam's temperature tended to run hot, but tonight it felt good, so he let him lay where he was. He'd already decided they were both missing school tomorrow.

He felt a little better, but not good enough for the spelling test tomorrow.

And he couldn't exactly get better without his doctor, could he?


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates, kiddos. In reality, not as long as it seemed, because last week's update actually got assigned to my other canon project, "Confessions of a Boy King".**

**I always work my prompts in order, and next in line was "Sam comforts Henry about never being able to go back to his family". It was a truly excellent prompt, but once I had written it, I realized that it belonged in "Confessions of a Boy King" and not "How To Fix a Winchester", so you can find it there. **

**The next prompt was "Dean searching the wreckage of a library where he had left Sam to research-and then a tornado struck.", submitted by Colby's Girl. **

**Another really, really amazing prompt, but my mind has been a little scattered this week and I was having difficulty coming up with something good. Since you guys take the time to send me amazing prompts, I don't want to ever address a prompt with a less than inspired update, so I have just been letting the prompt simmer in my mind for a while. **

**Plus, new updates to all my shows kinda fried my brain.**

**But...November starts in a week. That's right- NaNo. **

**I was going to attempt an original works project for NaNo, but life got busy with my Mom being hospitalized, so I didn't get a chance to do any pre-work, outlines, or research. I can't function as a writer without these things (at least, not on big projects), so, instead of original work, the goal is to get 150,000 words published to my five current projects (all three AU's, and both Canon fics).**

**Anyway, the main point of this absurdly long author's note is to let you guys no that for NaNo, at the beginning of every chapter I publish (on any project), I would like to start the chapter with an encouraging quote about writing. **

**I have been gathering them on Pinterest, and I really feel like they help when my work ethic is dragging. So, I know many of you write, and all of you read, so if you have a good one I can use, send it my way (preferably with the name of whomever it is quoted from). If I use it, I will credit it to both the person who said it, and the person who submitted it to me, along with your profile address (if you want me too), so that my readers can jump over and check out your stories if you'd like. **

**I have such amazing readers, and I've never encountered a troll on this site, and I think this is so important to the writing process. I want to try and spread the love around. Everyone feel's good about high traffic numbers, favorites, follows and reviews, so I want to help you guys too, especially if you are trying to get a new project off the ground.**

**One of my favorite quotes about writing is a great example- "Write hard and clear about what hurts – Ernest Hemingway".**

**Much love to the fandom!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Fourteen**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Kansas"**

Dean stared at the wreckage in front of him, aghast.

Only two hours before, the red brick building had been a quaint sight, cozy and inviting.

It had also been the public library of Gale, Kansas.

It was also, _also_ been the place where Dean had left Sam to do research two hours ago, while he went to check a cemetery the next county over.

And now...it was just so much rubble.

The tornado had struck it dead on.

"Sir! "Sir, you can't come through here, emergency personal are working..." The police officer tried in vain to keep Dean behind the yellow crime scene tape.

The entire block was a disaster, trees torn and uprooted, buildings in bricks and pieces, telephone and electric lines askew. Cars were overturned, water was spewing from a nearby hydrant, and in the distance, sirens of all kinds could be heard, along with weeping and shouting.

"My brother!" Dean yelled, pushing past the officer forcefully. "SAM! SAMMY!"

"Sir, you can't-" The officer tried again.

Dean whipped around, shoving a fake badge into the man's chest. He didn't even know what badge he had used, but apparently it appeased the man, because he stopped trying to block Dean's way.

He'd tried to get here sooner, but the roads were a disaster, filled with cars and emergency personnel, looking more like a war zone than a small Midwest town of five thousand.

"My brother was here doing some research, I mean, work. Where are the evacuees? Where are the survivors being bussed to?" Dean said, voice brooking no arguments.

The officer hesitated. "Sir, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, help me find my brother!" Dean snapped frantically, stepping to the far end of the wreckage. The area was totaled, as is a bomb had leveled the area.

Dean couldn't even make out where the front door had been. He turned back to the man. "Well, help me damn it!"

"Sir, I'm sorry but...there were no survivors at the library." The man said, with sympathy in his voice.

Dean felt the world try to shift, to slip away from him as black dots danced in front of his eyes. "Shut the hell up!" He yelled, forcing down his panic. "Look at this place, there could be people still trapped in there, we have to get them out-"

The man was shaking his head. "Sir, Officer Daniels, the canine unit came through. The dogs located three...victims, but it was already to late. They've cleared the site. We're just...waiting for free buses to..." The man trailed off awkwardly, but Dean knew what he had been meaning to say.

They were waiting for ambulances to free up.

So they could move the bodies to the morgue for identification.

"Show me." Dean demanded through numb lips, feeling far away suddenly, as if a stranger were in charge of his limbs, of walking and talking and breathing.

_Sam._

The man hesitated. "Officer Daniels, I'm not sure that's such a good idea..."

Dean turned wide eyes towards the man, suddenly furious and far, far more dangerous than any damn act of God or nature.

"Show me."

The policeman swallowed hard, but nodded.

"There were only three. One was an elderly man, another a woman. And...one younger man. Tall..." The officer added, glancing hopefully at Dean in case his information ruled Sam out.

Dean forced himself not to sway as he turned bleak eyes towards the man. "Let's do it."

Without another word, the officer lead Dean over to one side of the worst of the wreckage, where a dirty and dinged squad car with a cracked windshield was parked, lights circling, casting whimsical and obscene shadows across the macabre surroundings.

Dean forced himself to walk with wooden legs, still outside is body, floating somewhere else, _anywhere_ _else_ but here, where he was about to identify his brother's-

_(Not Sam-Not Sam-Not Sam-Oh God, Please Not Sammy)_

Body.

Beside the squad car, shrouded in black tarps, lay three small objects.

In reality, they weren't really small, especially the one on the far right, which was easily over six feet long, but somehow they all (especially the one on the far right) seemed far too small to have ever been alive, to have housed _people_, with lives and thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams-

_(And Sam. How could Sam ever possible look so small?)_

How could a black tarp ever manage to conceal someone as big, as alive as Sam Winchester?

The officer hesitated one last time.

"Sir, are you sure-"

"**Do. It."** Dean said, sure that if he didn't do it now, he never would, that he would simply run off screaming into the night, forever to live in that magical _'someplace else'_ where no one, especially Sam Winchester, could ever lay so cold and still under a black tarp.

The man pulled the tarp off the body on the far right, and immediately, Dean was forced to lunge to the side, forcefully losing the contents of his lunch.

"Oh, god..." He gasped, struggling to force down his nausea. "_Oh god_."

"Sir, I am truly sorry." The officer said.

"Don't." Dean replied, finally straightening.

"That's not Sam."

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

_(an hour prior)_

Sam jerked suddenly, brought out of his reverie when the man sat down beside him.

"Whew! It's really storming out there. I almost stayed home." The man said, smiling at Sam in a friendly way.

Sam smiled back reservedly, hunter's mind instinctively cataloging the man's appearance, his features.

Light hair, blue eyes, freckles.

And tall, maybe only an inch shorter than Sam.

"Yeah, sounds like. Were they calling for weather like this?" Sam asked, as he glanced down at his watch.

Dean would be back for his in about an hour, starving no doubt.

"Yeah, they've been issuing tornado watch's on and off all day, but a tornado hasn't struck Gale for like, a hundred years. They always go around." The guy said easily.

'Or they were due for one', Sam thought to himself, starting to put his research materials away.

He wished he'd managed to find what they were looking for, but so far he'd struck out.

He could find no reason why the farmhouse on the far edge of town should be haunted. Dean was following up the only real lead, two conflicting accounts about the burial site of a child who'd died of influenza several decades back. If Dean located the child's grave in the county cemetery he had gone to check out, then the account of the child being buried on the farm's land was false, and they were back to square one.

A woman with a little girl in tow walked by then, speaking quietly into the phone. "Okay, Tony. We're checking out now. Maggie's picked out her books. We'll go straight home, but I think you're overreacting, a tornado's never hit Gale."

The man looked over at Sam. "See what I mean?"

Sam nodded politely, moving to boot down his laptop. Within five minutes, he had put away the rest of his books, and was headed towards the front door. There was a cafe down the street, he could shoot Dean a text to meet him there for some dinner.

As he was walking by the front desk, he heard a woman's distressed voice. "What do you mean, there are no cabs available? How do you run out of cabs? Do you see the storm outside? My daughter and I can't walk in this! Forty-five minutes, are you nuts? There's a tornado watch in effect, don't you listen to the radio- he hung up. Great."

It was the woman from before, and now her daughter was looking up with her with liquid eyes. "Mommy, my teacher says anytime there is a tornado watch, we should go to the basement."

"I know honey, I know. Your teacher is right." The woman soothed. She looked over at the elderly librarian. "You don't have a storm shelter, by any chance?" She asked hopefully.

The older woman shrugged. "Tornado's never hit Gale." She said apologetically.

"Mommy!" The little girl tugged on her mother's hand.

"I know baby, I know. But something's wrong with the car. I can't get it to start, and Daddy's not off of work for another three hours." The mother said distractedly, looking stressed out and close to tears.

"Um, I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. I'm not the world's greatest mechanic, but would you like me to take a look?" Sam offered, feeling sympathetic towards the poor woman.

Both mother and daughter were clean and dressed appropriately for the weather, but the clothes themselves had the 'worn-often' look too familiar to Sam after a lifetime of wearing hand-me downs and resale store bargains.

The woman hesitated, passing her eyes cautiously over Sam's tall frame. But then she glanced outside, at the howling of the wind, and nodded reluctantly.

"Okay, yeah. Please. I don't know a thing about cars. My husband always says I need to learn, but honestly, it's all just nuts, bolts and wires to me." She said. "I'm Ellie, and this is my daughter, Maggie."

Sam smiled back. "I know the feeling. My brother Dean's the real mechanic in the family, but a few years back I...had to learn the basics. No promises, but maybe we can at least rule a couple of things out. Where are you parked?"

"Right out in the front lot. And here I thought I'd gotten lucky with grabbing a close parking spot. Isn't that the way it goes?" She said with a deep sigh.

Sam smiled reassuringly. "Let's see what we can do."

She lead him out front to where an old, red Pontiac was parked.

Sam knew his hunch about money being tight for the family was correct when he saw the car, with it's rust and hail damage, but the inside was clean, and he, of all people, knew what it meant to make-do.

He popped the hood, doing his best to ignore the angry howling of the wind, and intermittent bursts of rain.

"Maggie, honey, wait in the car where it's dry, okay?" Ellie said, shooing her daughter inside the shelter of the backseat before coming to stand beside Sam. "How's it looking?"

"Well, your battery and cables look good, are you getting anything when you turn the key?" Sam asked.

"Just a sarcastic noise." She replied with an apologetic smile.

"I'm gonna check the fluids, and the fuel line. You should wait in the car, it's getting cold out here."

It was, too, the air already much cooler than when they had first exited the library.

She shook her head adamantly. "No way. You're doing us a favor. The least I can do is weather the storm with you."

Ten minutes later, Sam crawled out from beneath the car. "I think I found the problem. You have a hole in a fuel line. The good news is, it's a fairly cheap fix, the bad news is, you are going to need a part. Your husband can probably do it, though."

Ellie sighed. "Well, thank you, Sam. At least I know what to tell him. We'll just have to go back in the library and wait for our cab."

Just then, the little girl opened to door. "Mommy, I'm hungry. Can we get some food?" She asked piteously, pointing up the street at the diner.

Ellie hesitated, a heart broken and slightly ashamed look on her face. "Oh, Maggie, sweetie. The cab will be here soon..."

Sam guessed she was afraid she wouldn't have enough money for food and a cab.

"Actually, I'm starving, and my brother is at least forty five minutes out still. Why don't you guys join me, my treat. The cab can meet you there." Sam offered.

Ellie shook her head immediately. "Oh, no, we couldn't possibly, you've been more than helpful."

Sam smiled at her understandingly. "Really, I want to. My brother and I grew up on the road, my father...traveled for his work. I know what it's like to...have to keep your priorities straight."

Sam hoped he had gotten his point across as delicately as possible, he didn't want to make Ellie feel ashamed for having a bad break.

She hesitated again, but Maggie said, "Please Mommy, I'm really, really, really hungry. I'm _starving_."

Ellie looked at Sam. "Well...Sam, I guess you are just our guardian angel tonight."

Sam laughed awkwardly. "Well, I'm definitely not an angel, but fortunately..." He swooped down, picking Maggie up and setting her on his shoulders, where the girl squealed in delight.

"The diner is just down the street, so we don't need wings, do we, Maggie?" Sam finished as they started down the road.

"No!" Maggie crowed in delight, clapping her hands and earning a tired chuckle from her mom.

They walked quickly, Sam setting the little girl down once they'd gained the entrance to the diner.

It was nearly deserted, with only one waitress and the cook working.

"Hey Ellie, heck of a storm." The waitress said.

"Yes, Agnes." Ellie agreed, glancing out the window. "But, actually, look. The wind just died down. Maybe it's passed already."

Sam glanced out the window, every sense suddenly on red alert, because Ellie was right.

Only moments before the howling wind had been whipping the tree branches back in forth with nearly hurricane like strength.

But now, everything was dead still, and Sam's skin was suddenly prickling as the barometric pressure dropped.

"Mommy, what's that noise?" Maggie said, as Sam placed a hand on the glass of the window.

"Is it a train?" The little girl added.

"No." Sam said, suddenly energized as the vibrations in the glass confirmed his fears. "Agnes! Do you have a storm shelter?"

"What!" Ellie cried, moving forward to look out the window. "Are you serious?"

Agnes was shaking her head. "No, tornadoes never-"

Sam cut her off. "They do today! What about the freezer?"

The waitress's eyes widened. "Yeah, yeah. This way!"

"Run!" Sam commanded, as the sound level increased. The window was now overtly vibrating, as were all the other glasses in the diner.

Sam scooped up Maggie, shepherding Ellie and Agnes in front of him as they ran to the back.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean's relief was so intense he actually had to sit for a moment as the world stopped spinning and his ears began to work again.

"Sir, Sir? Officer Daniels, to you need medical attention?"

"I don't understand..." Dean finally mumbled, "He was going to wait for me, and we were going to get dinner..."

Dean knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to help it, his relief was too big for his body to contain and it was determined to seek freedom via his confused rambles.

"You were going to eat?" Officer Daniels said, looking at Dean suddenly.

"Any chance he was going to meet you at the diner up the street? There were a couple of people who sheltered in the freezer there. They all made it, but a shelf toppled over on two of them. The cook and another man were caught under it. We haven't identified the other man yet. He was knocked unconscious. They were all taken To St. Christopher's."

Dean looked up at the man, hope in his eyes. "How do I get there?"

The hospital was a madhouse, too many wounded, and not enough beds.

"A man, tall, six foot four, brought by ambulance with a head injury!" Dean insisted, banging his hand against the counter in frustration as the secretary shook her head again.

"Sir, we haven't checked in anyone like that yet. Just look around!" She said.

"To be honest, most of these people aren't checked in yet. Bon Jovi could be here, and I wouldn't know it."

"Then what the hell good are you-" Dean started, but was cut off by a small, forceful tug on his sleeve.

He looked down, startled, at the little girl with mussed blonde curls.

"Are you looking for Sam?" She whispered. "He said his brother would come soon."

"Maggie!" A woman, battered and dirty and determined, swooped in. "What are you doing, honey, you can't just wander off!"

"I'm looking for Sam's brother." She replied. "I promised I would."

"I am!" Dean said, to fast and to loud, a fresh wave of desperate relief coursing through him.

"I'm Sam's brother."

"Well...shit." The woman said, finally appearing to run out of calm. "You better come with me. He's in this room down the hall. He woke up in the ambulance, so they triaged him over here."

Dean practically ran after her, ripping open the curtain.

"SAMMY?" He said, knees nearly giving out again when he met his brother's tired and pain filed hazel eyes.

"Hey, Dean." Sam greeted him with his trademark crooked grin, and Dean's heart might have broke into a thousand, million pieces and reshaped itself into some new, wild design in the course of a single heartbeat.

Sam looked horrible, dirty and bruised and scratched and gloriously, _gloriously alive_.

"You're alive!" Dean said, catching Sam in a bone crushing hug.

"Yeah..." Sam said with a pained wheeze. "Also, might have a rib broken..."

"Shit!" Dean said, jerking back but not completely relinquishing his hold on his brother.

His _living, breathing_, brother.

"We all are, thanks to your brother." The woman added with a grateful smile. The smile faltered. "I heard the library..."

"Gone." Dean said quietly, shaking his head to indicate that no one had survived.

The woman paled, closing her eyes. She opened them again, looking right at Sam. "You saved us." She said brokenly. "We were going back in, to wait...and..." She trailed off, visibly forcing down tears.

"You saved us." She whispered again.

"That's what he does." Dean said proudly, swallowing down his own tears as he brushed a blood matted lock of hair out of the way to examine Sam's head wound closer.

He steadfastly ignored the shaking of his hand, of his whole body.

_(Alive-alive-alive-Sam's alive)_

"That's who he is. My brother." Dean whispered as Sam let his tired eyes drift down.

"_Sam."_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: And here we go, another sneak update for "How To Fix A Winchester". This one is based off a prompt from KlainebowsHallowsRumbleroar, with some bullies roughing up Sammy, and Dean being awesome.**

**This is what came of it, and surprise, surprise, guys. I've never written a bitch/jerk origin fic, but this might count. I've never written anything contrary, so this could also be my canon contribution to the supernatural fandom regarding the long running bitch/jerk joke between the brothers. **

**So I always write my prompts in order, but coming up soon, I have two or three hypothermic Dean requests in a row. Since I'm not sure Dean's patient enough for that, I may mix them up just a little, so if it looks like your prompt was skipped, give me an update of two. I keep a list of every prompt sent, along with a date, so I don't think I will miss any, I'm just not sure I want three frozen Deans in a row ( oh, god, I love fan fiction. Who else but Fan fiction writers even get to say things like that? It sounds like a drink I should get to order at that imaginary bar the boys are going to open some day when the series ends.)**

**So, now that you all know my NaNo goals, keep the prompts coming. Remember, canon, hurt and comfort. Have a canon prompt idea that's a little darker or less focused on h/c? Feel free to submit it on my "Confessions of a Boy King" Project, which is canon Sam centered, though Dean is always a key player.**

**And, here is our NaNo inspiration for this update: **

"**A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit." - Richard Bach**

**Reviews are Love! Best wishes to everyone gearing up the NaNo. If you start looking longingly at the roof, send me a PM, I'll talk you done, lol.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Fifteen**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Fair Fights"**

Sam snuck in as quietly as he could. John was three days out on a hunt, and hopefully Dean was still three hours out on his date.

The coast appeared clear, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He started towards the bathroom, intent on getting cleaned up before Dean-

"Hey, Sammy, that you? Casey canceled on me, want to go grab a pizza?"

Sam froze, reluctant to turn around and let his brother get a good look at him.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was closer now, and Sam hunched inward, resisting the urge to simply bolt for the bathroom.

"Umm, I'm not really hungry..." He stammered out, edging towards the safety of the doorway.

"SAMMY!" Dean's voice sharpened, just as Sam felt a hand on his arm pivot him around to face his older brother.

"Dean, it's not as bad as it-" He started, but his brother cut him off.

"What the HELL happened? Who did this to you? Are they still breathing? How many were there?" The questions flew from Dean, even as he knelt to get a closer inspection of Sam's face.

Sam shook his head. "It's cool, Dean. I'm fine."

"The hell you are. Start. Talking." Dean ordered.

Sam pressed his lips together mutinously.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean repressed his angry shaking sheer force of will.

The kid looked horrible, one eye already black, lip split, scrapes and scratches on his palms and knees.

Hell, the kid had come out of his last go-round with a black dog looking better than this.

He dabbled alcohol on the cut on Sam's temple as delicately as he could.

Sam winced but didn't say anything. He'd stopped complaining about things like pain years ago, much to Dean's chagrin.

It had been much easier to know who the hell to fucking destroy when the kid had still been willing to come crying to Dean when someone hurt him.

"Sam, I swear to god, if you don't tell me who did this, I will go to school and just start pounding on people until the odds are in my favor that at least one of them was the asshole that did this." Dean threatened.

"No, you won't." Sam retorted tiredly.

"What, are you telling me you won? That the other guy looks worse?" Dean pressed on.

Sam looked away, and Dean repressed another slew of angry words.

The thing was, Sam was tough, and a hell of a street fighter. He was small for his age, always had been, and it had forced him to learn how to handle himself.

John's training had only been icing on the cake, but that was the problem.

Sam had gotten it into his head that John's training had given him an unfair advantage. He was non-violent by nature, and the fact that he was so good at fighting back bothered him.

He'd _let _some asshole win this round, because he thought it was right.

"Where were you?" He asked instead.

Sam mumbled something.

"What was that?" Dean said.

Sam sighed. "The library. I was walking home from the library."

"So, that's where I should go look for the bodies?" Dean joked, trying to loosen Sam up so he would speak to him.

Sam shot him a classic bitch-face.

Dean sighed. "Sam, if you think I won't go rough up jerks on the playground until I get the truth out of someone, you haven't been paying attention."

"Dean, I don't want you to beat them up. If I had wanted them hurt, I could have done it myself." Sam said quietly.

"Than why the hell didn't you fight back, Sam?" Dean asked in exasperation.

"Because, then I'm like them. Like Dad always says, there's no such thing as a fair fight." Sam replied.

"Yeah, he also says not to hesitate before hitting them over the head with a brick if you have too." Dean pointed out. "Sam, no one starts a fight unless they can win it. They go in to it thinking they have an advantage on you. If they miscalculate, that's on them."

"No. If I hurt someone, just because they hurt me, that's on _me,_Dean. It's enough to be able to take care of myself. If they'd started to seriously hurt me, I could have stopped them. But this?" Sam gestured at his face. "This is nothing. Their just big time jerks in a small time town. I don't need to beat them up to feel better."

"I'd settle for them not trying to redecorate your face." Dean snarked. This non-violent attitude of Sam's was getting tiresome.

"So, who was it?" Dean asked.

"Not. Telling. Not unless you promise not to hurt them." Sam said mulishly.

"Sam." Dean said in aggravation.

"No."

"SAM!"

"Still no."

Dean ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in places. "Alright. Fine. I won't hurt them."

"If your not going to hurt them, why do you want to know?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"So I can write their parents a very stern note." Dean snapped back. "No, Sam. Because if it happens again, I will remove their spleens myself. And your are going to tell me, or so help me god, I won't let you go back to school until every last single bruise heals."

Sam's mouth opened in shock. "Dean, that could take a week!"

"Maybe two, little brother, start talking." Dean replied.

Sam sighed, shoulder's slumping. "You promise not to hurt them?"

"I won't lay a finger on them. Cross my heart and hope to die." Dean said.

"Fine." Sam acquiesced.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean sat in the Impala, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he waited for his prey.

Finally he spotted the two assholes.

One was in a letter jacket, and the other was a ginger, just like Sam had described.

Bingo, baby.

Dean started the Impala, timing his acceleration towards the intersection just as the two older kids started to cross the road.

Two sets of frightened eyes looked up in shock as Dean sped towards them, but they remained frozen, like deer pinned down by the Impala's headlights.

At the very (very, very, _very_) last second, Dean slammed on his brakes, the car screaming to a stop mere inches from the two bullies.

Dean opened his door, flipping out his Bowie knife as he sauntered up to the two assholes.

"Do you know who I am?" He said in his most dangerous voice.

"You're...you're that Winchester kid's older brother..." One of them stammered, as they nearly tripped over their own feet trying to back away from Dean.

"Sam. His name, is Sam. And I'm not just his older brother. I'm in charge of making sure assholes like you don't go around treating him like a punching bag. Unfortunately for you..." Dean had now back the two boys against the wall of the nearby ally. "You've already committed that sin."

Dean twirled his knife between his fingers as the eyes of the two other boys locked onto the blade.

"Holy shit!" The red-haired one squeaked.

"So what, I ask is, is an older brother to do. You two..." He pointed the knife at first one, then the other. "Hurt my brother. NO ONE...hurts...my...brother."

Dean advanced threateningly.

"Shit, man. We're sorry. We didn't mean too..." The letter jacket said.

Dean snorted. "You didn't mean to give him a black eye?"

"We meant to hit the other kid, put Sam pushed him out of the way. He ran off, and your brother was just standing there, man. Like he was asking for it."

Dean lunged forward, and both boys heads smacked into the concrete as they recoiled instinctively.

"So, you tried to rough someone up, and when Sam stopped you, you took it out on him?" Dean was now holding the knife only a few inches from letter-jacket's face.

The kid nodded, eyes wide with fear. "But, we're really, really sorry."

They were nearly crying with fear now, and Dean smiled ferally. "I don't think I believe you..."

The kids spent the next two minutes sniveling as they attempted to reassure Dean that they were, in fact, sincerely, utterly and completely sorry.

"Lucky for you two assholes, I promised my little brother I wouldn't bring home any body parts tonight. But...don't...do...it...again."

Dean took a step back, and the two frightened boys sped off down the ally.

"Feel better?" An accusing voice asked from behind Dean.

Dean turned slowly, cursing his bad luck as he looked at Sam. "Actually, yeah. At least now I understand. You decided you picked the fight, by covering for the other kid. You didn't want it to be unfair."

"And you promised, Dean. You _promised_." Sam said, nearly in tears.

Dean walked forward quickly, catching Sam's chin and making him look up at him. "I promised I wouldn't lay a hand on them, and I didn't. But no one hurts you, _ever_, without dealing with me, do you understand that? I don't care how old you are, or how big you are. I don't care if you started it, earned it, deserved it or asked for it. If someone hurts you, they are going to deal with me. I will rain down hell on anyone who hurts you. Deal with it."

Sam swallowed hard. "I don't want more people to get hurt cause of me." He whispered.

"Sam, less people are going to get hurt because of you. You helped that kid, and those two boys just about pissed themselves just now. They'll think twice about screwing with somebody next time. You didn't start it. They did, and I finished it." Dean said reassuringly.

"It doesn't work that way, Dean." Sam said morosely.

Dean slung an arm around his shoulder, steering him towards the Impala.

"Sure it does, in our family. You can save all the nerds you want. Start a nerd protection foundation, a endangered geek society. You can have infomercials and fundraisers and flyers."

"Deeaannn." Sam said, laughing despite himself as Dean carried on with the endless possibilities of Sam Winchester's Save The Nerds campaign.

"Hey, this could work. You save the nerds. I save you. Together, along with our faithful Impala, we'll put fear into the hearts of bullies everywhere." Dean joked.

"You're such a jerk." Sam said, finally giving in fully to his grin.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. I swear that's all you do. Here I am, trying to help..."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Okay, so, it's stupidly late. Reviews are love, not mine, blah blah. **

**So, the prompt was 'Dean out in the cold, and Sam having to come and save him.' I actually got three frozen Dean prompts in a row, lol. This one is for JoJospn.**

**I sorta love the idea of frozen Dean making it down the mountain because he thinks he's saving Sam. **

**Enjoy.**

**How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Seventeen**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Jackets"**

Dean didn't know where he was.

He didn't know how he got to wherever the hell he was.

He didn't know how long he had been wherever the hell he was after he got there (however the hell that had been).

Things he did know.

It was cold.

It was windy.

It was dark.

Did he mention it was _cold_?

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural **

"Dean!" Sam yelled, getting more and more desperate by the moment as the temperature continued to drop steadily. The ghost that had hijacked his brother's body hadn't bothered to take his coat, and now a light snow was beginning to fall.

The wind was fierce, a living, howling creature seeking to reach cold fingers inside Sam's coat, and he shuddered, imagining Dean up here in the dark without even his jacket.

He could very easily freeze to death, if Sam didn't find him soon.

Sam had had no choice but to dig up the spirit's bones in order to salt and burn them first, as he couldn't really fight the ghost head on while it was housed snugly in his brother's body, but now he was worried he wouldn't be able to locate Dean in time.

They'd come to the small mountain town to solve a string of unusual murders.

Average, everyday people who were just up and leaving in the middle of whatever they were doing. Housewives leaving dishes in the sink, mechanics leaving car's with tires laying beside them.

Days later, their bodies would be found on the mountain, killed from exposure to the harsh winter elements.

Sam and Dean had eventually ascertained that it was the spirit of a college kid who had gotten separated from his buddies after a night of drinking over ten years ago.

The others had all assumed he had headed down the mountain, but the kid had stumbled into a ravine, breaking his leg. He'd died slowly, infection weakening him, the elements finishing him off, and all the while, no one had realized he was missing.

A storm-damaged gas line had lead the gas company to digging up the area in the cemetery near where the kid had been buried, and that had been all it had taken to rouse the bitter spirit. From there, he had just started hopping from victim to victim. He'd ride one all the way up the mountain, holding them hostage in their own bodies until they died the way he had. Then he'd ride back down with the newest body, and start the cycle all over again.

Dean had been his latest snatch, and Sam had only managed to find the kid's re-located grave a few hours ago.

Now, he just had to find his brother.

The spirit's hold on Dean should have ended when Sam destroyed his bones, his tie to the physical plane, but Sam had no idea where the body snatching ghost would have left his brother.

Or what kind of shape he would be in when Sam found him.

"DEAN!" He shouted again, following the winding path in the dark, the trail where the majority of victims had been found near.

Snow and wind made it hard to see, hard to hear, but giving up wasn't even an option.

Either both of them came down this mountain alive, or neither did.

"DEAN!" He called again, so loudly his throat was growing hoarse from the abuse.

"...Sammy..?" The voice echoed back faintly, and Sam felt his heart begin to race.

**Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural**

Dean shivered harder as the wind wrapped chilly arms around him, cold fingers of air snatching at whatever warmth his body managed to create as he stumbled down the mountain side in the cold.

He kept hearing his name, but he was tired, and shivering so hard he could barely see straight, and he couldn't tell, maybe it was just the wind..."

"Dean!" His name echoed again, and Dean stumbled, nearly going to the ground. 

But he pushed himself up again, because this time, the voice on the wind was familiar.

Sam's voice.

Dean knew every facet of Sam's voice, his happy voice (not heard enough), his sad voice (heard too often), his tired and irritated voice (pretty much all the time), but this was the voice guaranteed to sink it's claws straight into Dean Winchester's heart and soul.

This was Sam's worried voice, but more than that, this was Sam's _scared_ voice.

Sam didn't scare easily, so even Dean's frozen mind realized that Sam using his scared voice was bad.

A lifetime of looking out for Sam, of being the older brother and the protector had honed Dean's instincts, forging him into a weapon of epic proportions, especially when it came to the safety of Sam Winchester.

Dean had been the one to teach Sam to walk, to talk, to swim. He'd been the one to sooth the nightmares, to beat up the bullies.

He'd spent his life being the thing that stood between Sam and the monsters in the dark, and if Sam used his scared voice, he wasn't calling for John or Bobby or even Cas.

When Sam was scared or hurt, when he was using that voice, he was calling for Dean, because Sam knew that Dean would always come.

Sam didn't use his scared voice idly, so wherever he was on this dark, hellish, FREEZING mountain of doom, he must need help.

He must need Dean.

"Sammy!" His voice was weak and thready, nearly as unsteady as his steps.

"SAM!" He forced more power into it.

It was dark here (wherever here was, Dean was assuming it was a mountain of some sort, though he couldn't remember right then why the hell he was on a mountain), and he couldn't see Sam, but he could hear him, even over the wailing of the wind.

A part of his mind, fractured by the cold and disoriented from being possessed, was paying very little attention to where he was walking, instead wondering about what the hell his little brother was doing wandering around the mountain in the dark (and the _cold-cold-cold_).

This part of his brain, working on nothing more than big brother memory and instinct, had decided that Sam must have somehow become lost on the mountain, and obviously, Dean had come looking for him.

That was what Dean did.

He took care of Sam.

Where was his kid, anyway?"

"SAM?!" He called again, turning in an unsteady circle, or maybe the mountain was turning...

"Dean!" The word was said like a prayer, full of relief and gratitude, and Dean turned with a punch drunk smile.

"Sam!" He cried, stumbling over to Sam and nearly losing his balance. Sam caught him, hoisting him up easily, draping one of Dean's arms over his shoulder.

"I found you." Dean said fondly, as his eyes fluttered closed.

"What? Dean, Dean, talk to me. Open your eyes, Dean. Dean, I need you to open your eyes." Sam's voice was scared again, and it tugged on Dean's conscience, left a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He didn't like when Sam was scared.

Did something need killing?

Dean felt warm hands press against his face, and he frowned.

"S'hot. Sammy." He mumbled tiredly. "You're too hot. Got a fever?"

Had Sam gotten sick up here on the mountain, lost in the cold? Was the kid wearing a jacket?

Dean struggled to stand on his own, forcing his eyes open. If Sam was sick, Dean needed to get him down the mountain side, before he got worse.

"Gotta...get you down, Sammy. Getcha some medicine. Gone...be okay." He mumbled again, trying to lead his brother forward.

"What? Dean, I'm not sick. You're sick, man. It's the cold. The ghost hijacked you, left you up here. I've been looking for two hours. Come on, the Impala's only a few miles away. Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?" Sam asked, concern in his voice.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. "I'm...big brother. I carry...I carry you. I carried you out...of the fire." He said, losing his train of thought again.

Sam sighed. "That's right, Dean. You did. Both times, you got me out."

"Sam...you gotcha coat on? S'cold..." Dean said, trying to focus on his brother's chest.

"Yeah, but, you're right, Dean. I have a fever, I'm too hot. I need to take it off. How about you wear it for me, I don't think I can carry it right now." Sam said cajolingly.

Dean shook his head in confusion, Sam's words not making too much sense. It was cold out here, Dean knew that, though he couldn't really feel it anymore.

If Sam was sick, he should wear his jacket...

Sam was already trying to unbutton his coat, but Dean's free hand was fighting him, trying to stop him from taking it off.

"Too...cold, Sammy." Dean said, trying to make his brother understand. It was dangerous, it Sam got to cold...

"I'm sick, Dean. I'm too hot. Please, will you help me? Will you wear it so I don't have to carry it, and then help me get down the mountain to the Impala?" Sam begged.

Dean frowned, still sensing that Sam shouldn't be taking off his jacket, but his mind was too cloudy now to out think Sam's logic, and all Dean could hear was his baby brother pleading for help in that scared voice, the voice that had launched Dean into a hundred battles, that made Dean relive hazy memories of wrenching Sam away from a burning apartment building, of catching Sam's falling body in the muddy main street of Cold Oak.

It was the voice of Dean's fears, because Dean didn't get afraid for himself.

He got afraid for Sam.

"I need help, Dean. I need you to help me, or I won't make it down." The absolute certainty in Sam's voice had Dean believing him. Sam needed help, or he wouldn't make it off this mountain.

Dean would always help Sam.

"Okay, Sam. Here, give me...jacket. I'll help you." Dean said, straightening as much as he could.

He sighed out loud as the warmth of Sam's coat encompassed him, finally offering a barrier against the soul stealing anger of the wind.

"Dean, can you help me get down the mountain?" Sam asked again, that scared and worried tone in his voice again, and Dean's hand closed reflexively on his arm.

"It's okay, Sammy." He soothed. "Car's...not far."

"Okay, let's go then, Dean. I'm sick. I want to go." Sam said, as they started down the path, quick and ungainly, a strange creature with two heads and four legs and one heart.

Dean started losing time then, the trip down the mountain a series a flashes and half-memories.

The next thing he knew, he was rousing groggily in to motel room, on the bed farthest from the door.

"Dean?" Sam came in from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Hey, how are you feeling? You slept so long I almost thought I should have taken you to the hospital instead..." Sam trailed off as he watched Dean look around the room in confused displeasure. "Dean?"

"I'm on the wrong bed." Dean said, levering himself up unsteadily. He lurched on rubbery legs to the bed closest to the door, feeling a little better almost immediately.

Sam chuckled a little as he pulled on jeans and then crossed quickly over to his brother. "Sorry. It was closer to the heating vent." He explained.

He knelt beside Dean, looking into his brother's face intently. "How are you feeling though? Headache? Chills? Sore throat? Anything numb-Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean had reached out his hand, placing the palm against Sam's forehead. "Well, your fever's gone." He announced tiredly.

Sam just looked at him, wide eyed for a moment before he grinned. "Yeah, Dean. I'm all better. You got me down, Dean. But I think you're still a little tired, and a little out of it."

"Yeah." Dean agreed, laying back on his bed. He felt Sam tuck the blankets around him snugly, but he was too tired to call him out on it.

"Thanks for getting me down, Dean." Sam said softly.

"You should...make sure...jacket...next time." Dean mumbled, already more asleep than awake.

"Will do, big brother. Will do."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: And...NaNo is officially kicking my ass.**

**So, next chapter of HTFAW. This was a prompt for "Dean standing in for Sam while he got ready for a school dance", I.E., Dean having a "Mom" moment. I'm sorry, I'm at work and my book of prompts is at home, so I don't know the prompter. I will adjust that later tonight, if possible, but I am behind on posting and I wanted to get this up and going.**

**Reviews are love!**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not my sandbox**

**How To Fix A Winchester- Chapter Seventeen**

**The Unfortunate Thing About Formal Wear**

Sam pulled the tie off from around his neck, throwing it down in exasperation. Glancing over at the clock to check the time, he grimaced. He was supposed to pick Jennifer up in less than an hour.

And he could not get this stupid, god-forsaken tie to co-operate.

Finally, he gave up, flopping down on the bed in his and Dean's room.

It was times like this not having a mom around stung the most. It was the stupid little things. Not just parent teacher conferences or birthday parties or things like that, like you'd expect.

It was the stupid little things. Like having a mom to make your favorite cookies because you begged and pleaded and wheedled. And then having her tell you that you can only have two before dinner.

It was having someone smooth down your hair at the last minute when you were in a rush to go out the door. It was about someone taking pictures that would embarrass you years later.

It was having someone tell you what the hell kind of corsage to get your prom date, so you didn't end up with two on your nightstand (pink roses or white lily).

It was having someone tie your stupid tie so you could take a cab over to your prom date's house.

"Sam?" Dean stuck his head into the room, chuckling at the sight of his younger sibling splayed out in desperation.

"Well..." Dean drawled, coming the rest of the way into the room. "This looks...promising. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"The night's a disaster." Sam declared morosely.

Dean snorted. "Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but the night hasn't even started yet. Might move along faster if you, you know, finished getting ready and left."

"Can't." Sam declared flatly, with all the drama that only an overstrung, overachieving seventeen year old can manage.

"I can't decide on a corsage. The taxi is going to be here in fifteen minutes, and I can't get my STUPID tie to look right." Sam said to the ceiling.

Dean studied his brother for a moment. "Okay, Samsquatch. First thing's first. Get your ass off the bed."

He reached down and grasped Sam's arm, levering him up easily. Though Sam had had a growth spurt over the last few months, he hadn't yet caught up in the weight division.

Dean dragged Sam a little closer, snagging his tie off the bed from where Sam had dropped it in defeat. With calm, deft moments, he began tying it for Sam.

"No." Sam said in disbelief. "Now way. Dean, how do YOU know how to do this?"

Dean snorted. "Dude, don't sound so surprised, I'm insulted."

"Seriously, Dean. I've never seen you in a tie in my life." Sam said, admiring Dean's handiwork in the mirror.

"Winter formal, a couple years back. I took Cara Mills, and you should have seen the little red number she was wearing..." Dean trailed off, a glazed look in his eyes.

Sam coughed. "Uh, Dean? Story I actually want to hear?"

Dean shook his head. "Huh. Oh, well, we were in Sioux Falls that winter, remember? We were staying at Bobby's for a few weeks. He showed me. Said every man hated to wear a tie, but every woman expected us to know how, when push came to shove."

Sam smiled. "Bobby's sure full of surprises."

"You're telling me." Dean agreed. "There. No, problem number two. Corsages. Lily's are for old people and funerals. Give the pink roses to Jennifer, and the Lilies to her mom. Bonus points." Dean waggled his eyebrows at Sam, who laughed reluctantly.

"You're such a dog, Dean." Sam said, but he was smiling in gratitude. "Now. If the taxi would just get here."

"About that. I...sorta canceled your cab." Dean said.

Sam's eye's widened. "What? Why? Why would you-"

Dean laughed againl. "Relax, dude. Chill. Here."

Sam stared in disbelief as Dean held out the keys to...

"No way." Sam breathed out, a grin lighting his features as he searched his brother's face for confirmation.

"You're letting me take the Impala?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged, awkward under the weight of Sam's hero worship moment. "Dad let me. Just seem's fair. Besides, you might be the geeky brother, but your my geeky brother, and no way your taking your date to Prom in a cab. I even cleaned her out this morning. She's weapons free, for the night. Except for the mace, and one gun, and your butterfly knife, and, you know. The necessities."

Sam smiled even bigger. "Thanks, Dean. You kinda saved me."

Dean raised a brow. "Kinda? Dude, my status as awesome big brother has now reached epic proportions."

"Yeah." Sam agreed easily. "It has."

Dean cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the moment that was clearly edging into chick flick territory. "Oh, hey. Almost forgot. Come on, go stand by the car."

Sam followed Dean out to the car. "What-" His voice trailed off when Dean pulled a disposable camera out of his pocket.

"What?" Dean grinned. "You? Dressed like a penguin? Did you really think I was going to give up on that kind of blackmail potential?"

Sam posed awkwardly while Dean snapped a few photos, then Dean handed the camera to him. "Have Jennifer's mom take a couple more at her house. Then you'll be swimming in the bonus points. Chicks dig sentimental."

"Okay." Sam said, wanting to say a thousand different things in that moment, but knowing anything he said would only make Dean uncomfortable.

"You better go. You're late." Dean said, shoving Sam towards the car.

"I'm going, I'm going." Sam said laughing.

At the last moment, just as Sam was folding his newly long legs into the car, he felt something on the back of his head.

He glanced up at Dean questioningly.

Dean shifted, smiling, a little embarrassed. "Your hair, it was, a...sticking up a little."

"Thanks, Dean. Thanks for having my back."

Maybe Sam didn't have a mother. But he had Dean, and no one would ever try harder for him.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: So, not ignoring any prompts, just felt like throwing one of my own in there. Sometimes this story gets a little too action focused, so I thought I would write about something small today.**

**How about a 'Sammy saves Dean's ass' in an unexpected way !weechester! Fic?**

**This is a personal head-canon of mine, so I hope you enjoy it. Nothing the writers ever do will make me believe this didn't happen.**

**Cavity sweet, coming up...**

**Reviews are love.**

**As Always, **

**EverReader**

**Disclaimer: Not mine...**

**How To Fix A Winchester – Chapter 18**

"**The Unfortunate Thing About Deadlines"**

Dean shut the door to the apartment wearily, leaning against it with a haggard sigh. He was exhausted and sore and looking forward to a shower.

"Dean?" Sammy popped his head around the corner warily, and Dean smiled to himself when he met his little brother's bright hazel eyes.

"Hey, kiddo." He said tiredly. He'd been out all weekend on a werewolf hunt with their Dad, and Sam had been left behind. Dean was still a little uncomfortable with leaving his thirteen year old brother behind for two days, but John had reminded Dean that he had been responsible for Sammy as young as eight and nine.

Dean glanced up at the clock. "Why are you still up? It's a school night." In fact, it was one a.m., which actually made it Monday morning, and Sam should have been in bed hours ago.

Sam shrugged. "I knew you'd be coming back. Couldn't sleep. So I did some homework instead."

Dean studied his brother's face, his eyes tracing the shadows under Sam's eyes. He knew Sam worried every time he and John left on a hunt, fretted that this time, they wouldn't return for him.

"You still had homework left by Sunday night? Sammy, I'm proud of you." Dean teased with a tired smile. In fact, it was incredibly unusual for Sam to have homework left over, but perhaps he had gotten a head start on the next week's work.

"Get in bed kiddo, I'll be up after I shower."

Sam shrugged, tired but obviously relieved that Dean was home in one piece.

Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural Supernatural

Dean slammed the door of his locker shut, dread coiling in his stomach. He had algebra next, a subject he hated in and of itself, but worse, the teacher had taken one look at Dean and decided that he hated him.

He seemed to take a perverse joy in the fact that Dean was struggling with the subject. Dean couldn't exactly stand up for himself and say '_Hey, It's not my fault my homework isn't done, I had to go hunt a werewolf...'_

He slouched into class, hoping that just this one time, the teacher would choose to ignore his presence.

He'd thought about skipping algebra, but Dad would tan his hide if the school called about Dean playing hooky one more time.

No such luck.

"Mr. Winchester. How kind of you to grace us with your presence." The teacher sneered, and Dean had to repress a forcible growl.

"Let's see how you did with this weekend's problems. Your homework, please." The man grinned sadistically.

Dean slouched down even further in his seat, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that, Mr. Winchester?" The teacher said, purposefully baiting the teenager. Dean's classmates erupted in whispers and sniggers, which only seemed to bait the teacher further.

Dean sighed, feeling a blush stain his cheeks. "I said, it's not done yet."

Not done was an understatement, since he'd pretty much only managed to get two problems done Friday night before John had hustled him out to the Impala.

"Really. Well, let's just see what you have finished, shall we?" The teacher's voice held suppressed glee, and Dean fought visions of keying the man's car as he grudgingly reached into his book bag and pulled out his notebook.

He handed it over without a word, sinking down further still, bracing himself for the man's teasing.

"Mr. Winchester." The man began, and Dean swore he could here actual hate in his voice. "I don't enjoy being lied to. Next time, just turn in your homework, and don't make such a show of yourself."

The man tossed Dean's notebook back onto his desk, walking away in a huff.

Dean was confused, but knew better than to show in. He eased the notebook towards him as discretely as he could, and as the teacher started that day's lecture, his eyes skimmed over the pages the man had just looked at.

It was done. Every problem. Correctly, too, though the handwriting was sloppily and imprecise. It wasn't a perfect copy of Dean's own script, but close enough that the teacher wouldn't have realized the difference.

Sam.

Immediately, Dean realized just what his little brother had been doing last night at midnight.

After all, the kid had never said he was doing his own homework at one in the morning.

Either he had spent his normal homework night doing Dean's work and had then had to catch up on his own, or he had realized at the last moment last night that Dean hadn't gotten a chance to do his own work, so he'd sat down with Dean's math book, and apparently _taught _himself third year algebra, in order to try and prevent Dean's asshole teacher from embarrassing Dean in class once again.

Sam had listened to Dean's nightly diatribe about the evils of his algebra teacher, and had decided to protect Dean the only way he could from where he was stuck at their apartment.

Dean closed the door that afternoon, calling out for his brother. "Sam? Sammy?"

He frowned when he got no response, knowing that Sam's school let out twenty minutes earlier, and Sam was always supposed to come straight home.

Dean walked into the living room, pausing when he finally spied his brother.

Sam was passed out on the couch, book bag on the ground beside him, his own math book open on the coffee table.

Dean sighed, walking over and ruffling the kid's hair. Sam slept on, unaware, and Dean smiled to himself as he pulled an old, tattered afghan over the sleeping boy.

If Dad was there, he'd tell Dean to wake Sam up so he could finish his homework and then start his training, but Dad wasn't there right then.

And as far as Dean was concerned, Sammy had earned his rest.


End file.
